That Whiter Host
by KCS
Summary: As promised, the new collaboration between PGF and KCS. Sometimes the ghosts from within are far more frightening than those without, and one's own mind can be more terrifying than any other-worldly apparition. Now complete, at last.
1. To Begin With

**Here it is, everyone! The long-awaited story, _That Whiter Host_! **

**A few things you may wish to know: We took the title from a poem by Emily Dickenson, and you will want to read it before the story gets too far undeway. There is a link in my profile that will take you to a copy of the poem.**

**Also, both PGF and I are under some crazy schedules right now, so this story will in all probability be updated every 3 days or so, until mid-June when things settle down a bit (and the cliffhangers start!); then it will be quicker.**

**Until then, enjoy!**

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"_'Marley was dead, to begin with_.'"

"I beg your pardon?"

I glanced up from Charles Dickens's _A Christmas Carol_ to look with amusement at Sherlock Holmes, who was rather warily eyeing the tiny Christmas tree Mrs. Hudson had placed upon our table.

"I said, _'Marley was dead, to begin with.'_ That's the first sentence. It should appeal to your rather twisted sense of humour," I replied with a smirk.

Holmes poked at the little tree as if seeing if it were sturdy enough to withstand living in the zoo we called a sitting room and then glanced back to me.

"I told you, no more romantic Christmas stories, Watson."

"It's _not_ a romantic Christmas story!"

"Three spirits, a miser who changes heart, and a crippled child that goes about saying 'God bless us, every one' – and you say it is not a romantic holiday tale?" he snorted, poking the tree curiously once again.

I broke into a soft peal of laughter at the thought that Holmes sometimes rather resembled the character Ebenezer Scrooge; I had to basically coerce him into even recognizing the holiday season. He celebrated Christmas mainly because I asked him to, not because he derived much pleasure from it. Although I suspected he enjoyed himself far more than he let on, as he did a good many things in his odd life.

"What?"

"Have you read it?"

"No, thank heaven. But you obviously have, and many times too. And before you ask it, _**no,**_ I am not going to permit you to read it aloud tonight!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," I replied with a grin, closing the book and tossing it onto the ground by my chair, getting up and going over to the window.

A perfectly lovely snow was falling over London this Christmas Eve in 1894, large white flakes dancing past the windows and sparkling in the soft golden gas lights from the street lamps and shop windows. People were hurrying by beneath us, their arms laden with belated Christmas shopping, their hats and coats dotted with fluffy white flakes.

"What a lovely evening – look at that snow!"

Holmes snorted derisively but walked over to glance out of the window beside me with a grin.

"You're as bad as a little boy on Christmas Eve, Watson," he said fondly.

"Well it wouldn't hurt you to loosen up a bit this time of year, Holmes – you're as bad as Scrooge himself sometimes!"

"I am not!"

"I thought you said you hadn't read it – how would you know?" I asked pointedly.

Holmes's mouth opened and closed abruptly without noise, and I grinned at his face and turned back to the window to watch the late night shoppers rush and bustle about, running into each other and tipping their hats in the greetings of the season.

For once each was thinking of someone other than himself, and I was more than grateful to see it. In the line of work Holmes was in, we rarely got to view the better side of humanity, and I welcomed the holiday as a time to see it more clearly.

Somehow the warm mood had made its way through even to Sherlock Holmes's stubborn heart, however, for he leant his bony elbow casually on my shoulder there at the window and began to point out passers-by of interest down below us with the stem of his pipe, giving me full-length biographies of their homes and their intentions for the holiday season.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted our quiet talk by entering with a bottle of sherry and a cold supper, which I for one was grateful to have at least. I had been out delivering packages earlier in the evening and had missed dinner completely.

"Will you be needing anything else, gentlemen?" she asked, "I've got a lovely pudding and a goose roasting for you both tomorrow, but if you'd like something now…"

"No, no, thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson," I said hastily to the good woman, "this is very much welcomed."

"Well then, a merry Christmas to you both, gentlemen," the lady replied, nodding to me and giving Holmes a questioning look.

When I returned the compliments of the season and Holmes ignored her totally, she rolled her eyes, winked at me, and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

"Sherry, Holmes?"

"No, thank you, Watson."

"Did you eat today?"

"_Yes_, Watson – do stop that infernal fussing!"

I snorted and started on my dinner, glancing at the clock. Nearly midnight.

Over the years, as I had practically hounded Holmes into celebrating Christmas with me, we had rather made it a tradition to stay up until around one, exchange a small token, and then retire until the next morning, when Mrs. Hudson would fix us a repast to rival any fine restaurant in the city.

I had wondered, this being the first Christmas we had spent together since his Return, if the tradition would still stand, but apparently all was as it used to be in the old days, so far at least.

I glanced a little nervously at my desk drawer, where I had wrapped Holmes's present and hidden it just an hour ago (one could not hide presents for longer than that anywhere in the sitting room, for he was most ridiculously childish about finding them and deducing what was inside if one did), wondering if he would grasp its significance and if so, would he even like it.

Holmes was pacing rather restlessly in front of the windows, and finally he seated himself across from me at the table and snatched a biscuit from the brightly-coloured Christmas platter in front of me.

"You might ask me to pass them, Holmes," I teased, shoving the platter over to him.

He smirked, his mouth full of biscuit, and refrained thankfully from any further childish gestures, pouring himself a cup of now lukewarm coffee that had been in the pot since my return this afternoon.

"Sure you don't want to read _A Christmas Carol_ tonight, Holmes?"

My dear friend nearly splattered his coffee everywhere, but I could not tell if it was in reaction to my question or the fact that it was tepid at best now. I snickered and took my glass, rising from the table and settling down comfortably into my armchair by the fire to light my pipe.

Holmes mopped up his mess, snatched the entire tray of biscuits (Mrs. Hudson would throttle him if she found out he was eating over the carpet) and a glass of his own and brought them over to the hearth, where he flung himself on the floor carelessly and idly picked up the book I had dropped there earlier, leafing carelessly through the pages.

"Ugh. Worse than one of _your_ stories, Watson," he growled at last, scooting it across the rug back towards me and shoving another biscuit into his mouth as if to drown out the taste of the prose.

I laughed and grabbed a biscuit from the platter myself – our landlady did an enormous amount of baking during the holiday time – and for several minutes we sat in a companionable silence, during which the platter of Mrs. Hudson's sweets was considerably depleted.

I had nearly dozed off, what with the combination of the Yule Log and the sherry, when the clock struck midnight and Holmes jumped to action with an energy that surprised me.

"Holmes?"

He had scrambled to his feet with an eagerness that was unusual for his nature and was rummaging round in his bedroom, the noise accompanied by various crashes and tinklings as objects were subject to his vigourous searching. A moment later he rather shyly emerged, carrying a small package wrapped in red paper.

I felt my face crease in a wide smile – he was actually _excited_ about giving me a Christmas present? That was a novelty – his Hiatus had changed more about him than I had realised!

I hopped up and retrieved his gift from my desk, exchanging it with him on my way back to my seat. Holmes sat cross-legged on the floor and moved nervously with suppressed energy, stuffing another biscuit into his mouth to negate his having to say anything remotely personal.

I would have laughed at his endearing nervousness had I not thought it would be a trifle demeaning to him, and so I indicated that he should go first.

"Go on, deduce away. Or are you going to be normal this year and just _open_ the package?" I asked mischievously.

He nearly sprayed crumbs everywhere laughing, glancing over the package with a practiced eye.

"You go first, Watson," he said at last, glancing up at me.

I looked at the small parcel, a box roughly smaller than one of my journals but nowhere near as heavy as a book would have been.

"Hmm, I deduce that you did not wrap this yourself, Holmes, since you cannot cut a straight line in wrapping paper to save your life, and I can also tell that –"

"Oh, just unwrap the blasted thing!" he replied in exasperation, glaring at me.

I chuckled and undid the gold ribbon and red paper, revealing a small wooden box, which I opened. Holmes fidgeted nervously below me on the hearthrug, staring at his slippered feet as I did so, and for a moment I stared at the gift inside.

"How in the world did you know I wanted one?" I gasped at last.

Holmes snorted.

"You've been poring over them every time you go into the stationers, _that_ took no deduction whatsoever," he informed me.

"So that's why I caught Alfie and Wiggins following me three times in the last two weeks!" I said, sudden comprehension dawning – he had sent the Irregulars to spy on me to find out what I wanted for Christmas.

My friend merely grinned.

I laughed delightedly and removed the Waterman fountain pen from its wooden box.

"It's the perfect gift for a writer, Holmes, and I really have been wanting one ever since they came out a few years ago, just never got one for myself!" I went on excitedly, holding the sleek instrument up to the glowing firelight, "You have no idea how much!"

"Good. Although I don't know why I set myself up for yet more of your romantic drivel," he sighed elaborately, looking impishly at me out of the corner of his eye as he childishly tried to peek into his present.

I snorted but suddenly flushed with nervousness. "Go on, your turn, Holmes," I said, a little awkwardly, "stop peeking and open it!"

He smirked, tearing off the blue paper and the little silver bow that had taken me fifteen minutes to tie passably, lifting the object out and beginning to unwrap the white tissue paper round it.

Suddenly I felt very warm, and very nervous, and so I got up to refill my glass at the table, leaving him by the fire to open the gift.

I had not found anything in any London shop that meant quite the same as this, something I wanted to give him on our first Christmas together since his Return – something that signified cutting all ties with those painful old memories and letting the spirits of the past lie in the past.

I had taken his silver cigarette case that he had left me at the Reichenbach Falls and had it engraved with our initials and the wishes of the season, giving back to him the last remaining item I had that would possibly tie me to those painful years and the anger and hurt that went along with them.

I hoped that he would realise that, with that gift, I was relinquishing any bitterness that I still harboured over his three-year deception, that I was laying those ghosts to rest, never to rise again. I chanced a glance at him as he sat there by the fire, reading the little note that I had enclosed to that effect, and saw that he was turning the case over and over in his hands, looking at it as if it were a brand-new object.

Then he rose to his feet slowly, tucking the note into the case and snapping it shut, placing it in his pocket as of old, and walking over to me at the table, the normal harshness of his grey eyes softened quite a bit.

"Thank you, my dear Watson," was the only thing he said, accompanied by a warm smile which I a little timidly returned.

I held my glass out to meet his as the clock struck the half-hour, but the clink of the crystal was lost in a pounding of feet upon the stair. I glanced at Holmes in puzzlement and was not a little pleased to see an irritated look cross his face at the idea that someone was interrupting our intimate little tête-à-tête.

But when the door flew open without preamble and a familiar little face appeared, both of our faces softened.

"Alfie, what are you doing about on such a night without a hat?" I demanded, for the little Irregular's ginger hair was completely without cap.

"Oi don' 'ave one, Doctor, not since Rat pinched it las' week when 'e went down by th' river," the lad informed me, brandishing a thick letter in Holmes's direction, "this 'ere's sent by special mess'nger, Mr. 'Olmes. Looks loike i' might be importan'."

"It had better be, to interrupt our Christmas Eve," I growled, seeing the alacrity with which Holmes opened the missive, all former softness gone from his face in the light of a possible case.

Alfie shot me a sympathetic look before skipping over to the half-eaten platter of biscuits and beginning to busily fill his pockets.

"'Ow's yer 'oliday, Doctor?" the lad asked by way of conversation, hopping to my desk to look at the assortment of greeting cards I had tacked up there.

"Wonderful, Alfie," I replied with a smile, watching his childish enthusiasm.

"Blimey, yew even got a tree!" he gasped, seeing the rather pathetic tiny thing standing on our table, "but 's a bit scrawny, don' yew think?"

"Alfie, can you take a reply back to this messenger at the office for me?" Holmes interrupted briskly.

"An' a merry Christmas t' yoo too, Mr. Scrooge."

I hastily covered my chortle in a cough as I heard the lad's muttered sentiments before he nodded cheerfully at Holmes.

My friend scribbled down a reply on a loose piece of foolscap and handed the lad a sovereign, telling him to keep the change.

The boy's eyes got round as Christmas wreaths as he stared at Holmes as if he'd gone mad.

"Cor! Thanks, Mr. 'Olmes. Guess yer not such a Scrooge after all!"

I snickered as Holmes glowered at the boy, shooing him out of the room as if he were a pesky fly.

I laughed again as Alfie stuck his tongue out at my friend and waved cheerfully to me before setting off down the stairs, no doubt to attack Mrs. Hudson's fruitcake before departing.

"That child grows more precocious every day," Holmes growled, taking up the letter and walking over to me where I still stood by the window, watching the swirling white flakes drift by.

He moved over beside me and chuckled as we watched the little Irregular reach the pavement, hurling a snowball at a tall gentleman's black top hat and neatly knocking it from his head before taking off at a run down the street.

"You've made one little boy's Christmas a very happy one, Holmes," I remarked sentimentally.

I expected some scathing retort about ridiculous romanticism, but to my surprise I heard an entirely different set of words.

"I certainly hope so, Watson."

So surprised was I that I nearly forgot about the letter until Holmes suddenly shook himself out of his reverie and showed it to me.

I took it from his hands and was immediately put in perception of the weight and thickness of the paper. Only a few times had I encountered paper similar to this…one being during the Irene Adler case. The sender was obviously wealthy to afford such stationery.

A slight foreboding gripped me as I looked down at the beautifully written lines on the page. The missive ran in this way:

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes:_

_I am plagued by the greatest of afflictions and desire to consult with you. Being far from a matter of national or political strife, this is rather a danger which troubles me personally. My honor and future happiness and family name all rely on the outcome of this affair._

_But my plea is not for myself alone but all the more for another. It is for her sake that I come to you._

_If it is agreeable I will call on you tomorrow morning at nine. I apologise in advance for any disruption to your celebrations; but the matter is of the gravest urgency and cannot be delayed in being laid before you. _

_I give to you my wishes of happiness this holiday season._

_Count Heinrich Austerlitz, Weissberg, Bavaria_

"Oh, not another case – on _Christmas Day_?" I moaned in dismay, handing the letter back to Holmes.

Holmes looked at me pleadingly as he stuffed the rather peremptory missive into his pocket. I glared at him, refusing to smile at his begging attitude.

"Please, Watson?"

I just looked at him.

"You'll get a chance to take notes with your new pen…"

At that I laughed without thinking about it, and Holmes grinned, knowing I would never ask him to turn down a case, holiday or no holiday. The consequences of his boredom were far worse than any case possibly could be, Christmas or no.

He refilled his glass and topped off mine, turning back to me to finish our interrupted wish.

"A Merry Christmas, my dear Watson."

"And to you, Holmes."

"To our new client?"

"May his case be considerably less dangerous than I know you are hoping for."

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**To be continued...**


	2. It Will Explain Itself

**A/N: My deepest apologies for the lateness of the update, everyone. Reality slammed into both PGF and me this week, in my case with a sinus infection and fever and in hers an enormous amount of work preparatory to her return. But you know us - we update unless we're physically unable to, which in this case was what happened. Thank you for your patience.**

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_"__An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.__"_

_Charles Dickens _

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I awoke on Christmas morning to see that London was covered in a veritable blanket of sparkling snow, its clean whiteness covering every inch of the worn and ancient streets and rooftops of London, making it an unfamiliar but far friendlier place than usual.

This was not my first view of the morning, however, for it was bone-achingly chill on such mornings and I tended to seek refuge in the warmth of my bed long after the sun had risen.

This morning of all mornings, Christmas Day, which was meant to be a day of rest, I was not given the chance.

"Watson."

I groaned inwardly as the familiar voice broke into my consciousness and I tried in vain to shut it off by burying my head deeper in the covers.

"Watson..." Holmes's voice took on a wheedling playful pitch, indicating he was in a good mood and that mischief was soon to follow if I did not rouse myself.

I grunted, hoping that this would satisfy him and give me a few moments of respite.

"Watson, old fellow, it's past eight…"

_My point precisely_, I thought in irritation.

The silence stretched for a few moments more and I dared to hope that that would be the end of it.

Then I heard the heavy scrape of my water pitcher and I bolted upright.

"Holmes, don't you dare!"

My friend, looking irritatingly put-together and alert, smiled and slid the pitcher back into place.

I glared at him. "You are absolutely insufferable."

"And you, my dear Watson, are _late_. It is already a quarter of nine. Count Heinrich Austerlitz should be arriving in only a short -"

"Great Scott!" I had completely forgotten! I had never been overly comfortable when Holmes dealt with nobility and higher officials, lacking the authoritative confidence that made my friend act not only as their equal but often their superior.

"I suggest you rouse yourself." Holmes said, still wearing his insufferable grin.

"Not needed, Holmes!" I said, hurriedly climbing from my bed and heading for my bureau. Why couldn't he be this cheerful at a later hour, or have been yesterday evening?

Holmes left the room chuckling and I performed a very hasty toilette before descending the stairs to join him.

The breakfast table had been set and accordingly disordered by Holmes's rooting about for toast, which he was still munching on as he dug about in his files on his desk.

In fact the files were all over his desk, and there was tobacco ash scattered in front of his chair. He had been up for a good while now.

"Holmes, don't you think we should tidy up a bit?" I asked in a slight panic, taking in the great clutter that had been shoved back against the walls and the remains of the breakfast.

Holmes looked up in some surprise and glanced at the table.

"I thought you would want some."

"There isn't time, Holmes! He'll be here any minute!" I glanced at the clock. Five of.

Holmes frowned and seemed to finally comprehend the state of our sitting room.

"Perhaps you're right."

He tossed aside the toast and began to shove the papers behind his desk in a great flood. I flinched as I knew what sort of chaos this would cause later on when he needed them – and I knew who would have to sort them; it was not going to be Mrs. Hudson.

There was nothing else for it, however, and so I began to gather the scattered the dishes, placing them on the tray and then sliding the whole beneath the settee. Hopefully our client would not notice the rather excessive odor of eggs, sausages and coffee.

I cannot count the times that we have performed this hasty cleansing of the sitting room…or at least, scrambling about so that it appears to be clean. Anyone who knows my friend through my memoirs is no doubt also acquainted with the deplorable state of his rooms and his excessively untidy habits. I myself am not the neatest of men, but I think it fair to say that Sherlock Holmes had turned slovenliness into an art form.

We only just managed to get the clutter shoved safely out of sight before there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson entered, announcing our client.

I turned to see Holmes, just out of the line of sight of the door, trying to pry the discarded piece of toast off the carpet, only to reveal a lurid spot of marmalade which he then tried to scuff out with his shoe.

I turned to the door myself with a roll of the eyes, stalling for time.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She nodded and I turned my attention to the man who entered as she left.

Count Heinrich Austerlitz, like so many other of the European nobility we had met, was a tall, well-built man, with a surprisingly weak chin but sharp eyes that denoted a definite intelligence. His hair was dark and he wore a neat pair of sideburns and moustache. His dark and rather shaggy brows gave him a somewhat menacing look when he turned the full force of his gaze upon one.

I stuck out my hand uncertainly and after a moment's consideration he took it. At least he was better-mannered then his Bohemian predecessor so many years before.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" He asked in a thick accent, his eyes searching my face with that unnerving gaze.

"No, Count, my name is John Watson. This man here…" I gestured our guest respectfully into the flat and turned to my friend, shutting the door behind us.

"…Is Mr. Holmes."

Holmes was upright again, and I noticed that he had conveniently placed his shoe over the marmalade stain, hiding it from sight.

Holmes smiled politely and bowed. "Count Austerlitz, it is an honor to make your acquaintance; would you please take a seat?" he gestured toward the armchairs and Austerlitz obligingly chose one of them and sat down.

Holmes took the opposite chair and I settled myself upon the settee, arranging my feet to conveniently hide the napkin and piece of sausage that was barely visible under the leather.

"You received my letter, I take it?" the count demanded in the imperious and condescending tones that were the inevitable result of his class's upbringing.

"I did."

"Then you will help me?"

Holmes cocked his brows slightly and I wondered if he regretted having to deal with yet another nobleman. But his reply was the same as it was with every one of his clients no matter their class.

"I would be very much obliged if you would tell me of your troubles first, Count, so that I can determine whether I can indeed be of service to you."

My friend can be tactful when the fit so strikes him, and this rather diplomatic statement apparently satisfied the Bavarian, for he nodded. "Very well."

Holmes closed his eyes and at once assumed the attitude that he usually did when listening to client's stories, sitting languidly back in his chair, his head upright and his hands steepled before him, though he appeared to be relaxed in every other way.

Austerlitz stared at him for a moment as though Holmes were some foreign creature he had never encountered. No doubt the man had already formed his own mental pictures of Holmes from the stories and accounts, including my own, that had been written about him. It was rather remarkable how many that came to seem Holmes were taken aback by his bizarre attitudes, which after so many years seemed to me to be normality.

The count turned his gaze questioningly to me and I had to hastily hide the smile that had been creeping onto my face. I nodded to him instead and after a second or more of hesitation he began.

"You have read my note; you know it is not for myself alone that I come but for another. "

Holmes said nothing, so he went on, his sharp eyes softening a bit.

"This woman of which I wrote, her name is Cecilia Strauss, a beautiful woman, the daughter of the Baron of…"

Holmes' left eye crept open in irritation and he interrupted the man with an impatient wave.

"Count Austerlitz, if you could _please _give me the facts, without embellishments, it would be greatly appreciated."

The count paused again, and glared at Holmes in surprise. I bit back a sigh; this was going to be a rather long interview.

"Yes, of course…we are to be married four weeks from now on my estate. A quiet marriage, but it is no great secret."

"Your estate is where?"

"My castle lies in a southern province of Bavaria, by name Weissberg. A few hundred forested acres, twenty miles from the nearest railway station and large city. There is only a village nearby."

"This girl is of good prospects? Her family is content with the marriage?"

"Yes."

"Then what precisely why are you concerned about her?"

"Because I fear someone may be trying to kill her."

I blinked, pausing in my scribbling down a description of the province of Weissberg to look up. Holmes had not so much as moved, however, save that one black eyebrow had raised.

"I must ask you to be more explicit, Count."

The man glanced from one to the other of us, for the first time displaying signs of nervousness. At my reassuring nod, he turned back to Holmes and began again.

"I must begin by telling you gentlemen of a legend that surrounds my family. I will freely admit I place no stock in such…nonsense, but Cecilia's family is the superstitious type, you understand…"

"Yes, yes," Holmes muttered with a languid wave.

"And I will tell you that while I believe in no such things as I am about to relate to you, I also am no fool, and I have historical proof that there is a remarkable series of coincidences revolving around this legend. I have no desire to become another part of its gruesome history."

Holmes opened his eyes with a look of approval. "We are quite assured of your sanity, Count. Now, the legend, if you please, and do try to keep the romance to a minimum?"

The count's brows bristled as he turned them on my friend, and I repressed a sigh, patiently holding my pencil poised over my notebook until the nobleman had swallowed his irritation and begun once more.

"The legend dates back to our medieval days, Mr. Holmes, and I will spare you the details of my family history," said he, his voice taking on a dry tone at Holmes's small smile, "and come straight to the point of the legend itself. There is an…apparition, Mr. Holmes."

"There always _is_ in such legends," the detective replied sardonically.

I winced, but the Count obviously was growing used to my friend's bizarre humours or else simply impatient for the interview to be at an end, for he went on without preamble.

"This…ghost, for lack of a better word, gentlemen, is supposed to appear when a member of the family is to be married. She is supposed to be the wife of one of my ancestors, who on her wedding night fell down the winding steps of the east tower and broke her neck. This woman supposedly appears to curse the inhabitants of the castle at the events of the Count's marriage."

"And you are about to be married yourself," I interjected, listening with interest – these kinds of tales had always held rather a fascination for me. I saw Holmes shoot me an amused glance at my eagerness before turning his attention to our visitor.

"Yes, Doctor," the Count said directly, "and this…thing, whatever she is, has apparently been frightening my poor Cecilia half to death over the last fortnight."

"She has seen this apparition, the ghost of a bride?"

"Apparently," was the non-committal answer, and Holmes's eyebrows raised.

"I know exactly what you are thinking, gentlemen, for I believe the same way – I am not superstitious by any stretch and my fiancées certainly is," the Count answered his look, "but still there is something going on in that castle, Holmes, and I want to know what. Cecilia may be superstitious but she is not a weak woman, and definitely not a liar – she is seeing _something._"

"Have you seen the apparition yourself?" Holmes asked.

The Count shook his head. "No, I have not. But according to legend, the woman's ghost, still in her bridal gown, appears first to the bride, only then to the groom if the wedding is not called off."

"Which of course you are not going to do."

"Of course not!"

"Very well. Why then have you come to me, if you do not believe in this and you have no intention of calling the marriage off?" Holmes asked reasonably.

"Because, Mr. Holmes," the nobleman replied, his keen eyes narrowing under those bushy eyebrows, "I will admit that there is a rather gruesome history – if it can be called history – that seems to bear out the idea of a curse. I have no intention of believing in such things but someone easily could be using the legend as harm against my fiancée – and I will do anything in my power to protect both her safety and her peace of mind. You have only to name your price, Mr. Holmes."

"Admirable sentiments, Count; however, my prices are on a fixed scale. But that is a mere bagatelle – do tell me more about this legend. You say the woman appears to brides first?"

"Yes. As far as I can research, there have been three deaths of the brides by various accidents, all within a month of their weddings. Two of the grooms died at some point in history, and in one instance both bride and groom perished in a boating accident the day after their marriage ceremony."

Holmes's eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"Granted, no one knows if that history is true, Mr. Holmes, but I refuse to take chances with my fiancée's life," the Count replied earnestly, his annoyance with my friend gone in the face of his seriousness about this case.

I was impressed with the nobleman's stolid common sense – and also with his evident love for his fiancée. Both admirable qualities, and I glanced at Holmes to see his reaction. But of course, he was merely interested in the quality of the problem.

"How many times has your fiancée seen this…apparition, Count?"

"Six times in the last fortnight, Mr. Holmes, ever since she and a few relatives on both our sides have begun their stay at the estate in preparation for the Christmas festivities. She says four times it has appeared in her bedroom and twice in a dark hallway in the castle."

"You have a sizable home, I take it?"

"Very – not much has changed save repair work since the medieval days, Mr. Holmes. The moat, walls, and so on are perfectly intact."

"You have a large staff?"

"Normal for a castle that size – a couple dozen or so. All have been with the family for many years, though."

"Do you know of anyone who bears you or your fiancée a grudge, Count?" Holmes asked, motioning for me to make sure to get these notes down.

"Well, every man makes enemies, Mr. Holmes," the man said calmly, "but I doubt that anyone would wish enough harm to me or Cecilia to go to all this trouble. That is the odd factor – because I know of no one who would make a good suspect, this business worries me, which is why I came to you."

Holmes had leaned back in his chair, his brows drawn in concentration, staring at the floor and not saying a word. The count glanced at me, and I shook my head, both of us falling into silence as Holmes's face grew increasingly dark and pensive. Finally after several minutes he glanced up at the Bavarian nobleman.

"I will take your case, Count. There is something sinister at work here," he said in a voice that ran a chill down my spine – similar to the tone he had used when discussing the Hound of the Baskervilles. I fervently hoped that this case would turn out to be equally of this world.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," the nobleman said, rising with a bow, "and your fee?"

"We can discuss that later. I shall need directions to your castle – Dr. Watson can take them down. And be on your guard, Count – something is indeed amiss there. Watch yourself and your fiancée, and report any further happenings to me as soon as we get to Bavaria. Now, I should like to ask –"

He stopped, mid-sentence, his back going straight as a ramrod and his eyes staring at the door.

"What is it?" I asked, standing as well.

"Someone is in the hall, listening," Holmes muttered, motioning me behind him and looking at the door, "and eavesdropping is never the pastime of an innocent party. Were you followed here, Count?"

"Not that I know of," the man replied a trifle uneasily, watching as I pulled my revolver from the desk drawer to cover Holmes as he approached the door.

"Well, we shall soon find out," said he softly, glancing back at me. I nodded to show that I was ready.

Then Holmes reached out and noiselessly took the doorknob, preparing to throw it open and surprise the lurker outside our door.

* * *

**_Ooh, first cliffhanger! Don't worry, I promise on my Complete Annotated that an update will be up within 3 days this time - it's already in the works._**


	3. Make a Ghost of Him

_"__Unhand me, gentlemen. __By heaven! I'll make a **ghost** of him that lets me.__"_

_William Shakespeare_

* * *

The count, very much startled, began to speak but Holmes made a harsh slicing motion in the air with a thin hand and the nobleman subsided, though his face flushed indignantly. Holmes glanced back at me, and I pointed the pistol in the direction of the door. He turned and opened it.

And a ragged bundle of snow-covered clothes tumbled into the room with a squeal.

I sighed, putting the gun back in the drawer, and Holmes's pale face grew irritated as he hauled the little eavesdropper to his feet.

"Alfred Weber Samuelson," he said sternly, and the boy winced at hearing his full name, "what the devil do you mean, listening at keyholes?"

"Oi didn't really mean ta peep, Mr. 'Olmes," the lad said pleadingly, casting a helpless glance at me for sympathy, "oi was gonna give yew somethin' an' the ol' lady wasn't in so I came up th' stairs by meself –"

"Alfie," I said warningly, not appreciating the lad's sentiments toward our longsuffering landlady.

"Well, oi mean, oi was by meself, and so oi didn' know yew was in wiv a client, Mr. 'Olmes – oi was jist listenin' ta see if yew was near done," the boy finished, desperate to convince us he had not been eavesdropping on our conversation.

Holmes remained silent, arms folded, the fingers of one hand tapping against the other arm as he looked at the repentant Irregular, and for about fifteen seconds there was no sound in the room save the ticking of the mantel clock. Then Alfie's face flushed redder and he dropped his eyes.

"All roight, oi was jist curious," he admitted finally.

Holmes snorted, turning back to the count. "My apologies for the interruption, Count. This is one of my errand-boys, and they can be rather inquisitive."

The nobleman smiled indulgently (for the first time since he had arrived) and said something about not minding children, in fact his fiancée wished to have several. _If they are anything like those Irregulars, Lord help Bavaria_, was my only thought.

But I was surprised to see Alfie looking at the Count with great interest as he spoke.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but ain't yew German?"

I winced at the lad's familiarity and somewhat tactless question – not everyone who had a Germanic accent was German! – but the Count seemed amiable enough and explained to the lad about his being from the German-speaking country of Bavaria.

"Blimey! _Meine Großmutter ist deutsch, und deswegen ich spreche die Sprache sehr gut_!"

I stared first at Alfie and then back to Holmes, whose jaw had dropped farther than I had ever seen, as our little Cockney spouted off a string of obvious fluent German to the Bavarian nobleman sitting on our settee.

The Count started, then smiled and responded in kind, and the lad grinned.

Holmes finally found his voice, trying visibly to remain calm, patient, and deliberate – and failing most miserably.

"Alfie. Where the devil. Did you learn. To speak _German_?!"

The lad grinned at Holmes's exasperation, shooting a sly look at me. "'Ere now, Mr. 'Olmes. Yer tellin' me wiv all tha' deduction yew can' tell from me name tha' me grandmother's German? Yer slippin' a bit, ain't yew?"

I started to laugh and received such a perfectly malevolent glare from the ever-increasingly-irate detective that I snapped my mouth shut upon the instant. Alfie snickered and glanced back at our visitor.

"The child speaks the language quite fluently, apparently, Mr. Holmes," the Count said, glancing at my friend warily and trying to diffuse the obvious tension.

Holmes gave a very weary sigh, rubbing at his temples as the boy smirked. "Wonderful. Alfie, sit with Dr. Watson and for heaven's sake _be quiet_ until I am done with the Count, if you please? Then I shall need you to run a few errands for me."

Alfie snatched a lump of sugar from the bowl upon the table and bounced over to me, perching on the arm of my chair and wriggling with suppressed energy while Holmes finished up the details of our client's case, promising that we should reach Bavaria within the week and finally rather abruptly dismissing the man with a bow.

Alfie hopped off the chair as Holmes shut the door and sprang over to his desk, his grey eyes now afire with nervous energy at the prospect of a new and exciting case. He began to scribble out a telegram, completely ignoring us, and Alfie turned to me.

"Oi, I almos' forgot, Doctor," the lad said suddenly, "oi 'ave somethin' for you an' Mr. 'Olmes – 'ere. No, Doctor," he hastily added, seeing my raised eyebrow, "'tain't somethin' oi nicked, I promise!"

I smiled and crouched down to the boy's level as he handed me a rather worn Christmas card that obviously had come from some secret stash of treasures in the little urchin's cache of possessions (or else he had stolen it from someone who set it out after the holiday!). The small gesture touched my heart, for the lad was glancing at me shyly to see if I liked it.

"Thank you very much, Alfie – look, I shall post it right here with our cards along my desk," I said with a smile, sticking the piece of pasteboard alongside the other greetings Holmes and I had received that season, albeit none with as much heart behind them as this one.

The lad's big green eyes lit up and a wide grin spread across his freckled face.

"Ta, Doctor – blimey, yew gent's got a lot o' greetin's this season. Me an' Wig were jist sayin' –"

"Alfie!" Holmes's sharp voice snapped through the dialogue, and the Irregular rolled his green eyes at me and jumped to attention.

"Here is a list of what I need you to do – Dr. Watson and I will be leaving on the 27th for the Continent. I need you to tell Wiggins we'll be gone until well after the New Year, in all probability."

Alfie nodded.

"Send this telegram to my brother and Lestrade of Scotland Yard," Holmes went on. Glancing up at me, he explained. "Letting them know we will be unavailable until our return, whenever that may be. Watson, we will need two first-class tickets for the Continental Express. Do you think you can get those? I need to do a bit of research before we leave."

"Well, yes, but I can't do it until after Boxing Day – and neither can you do your research," I replied, "it is Christmas, remember?"

"Bah," Holmes growled irritably, scowling, "I need information!"

Alfie snickered at his grousing, glancing at me.

"Well it will have to wait until the day after tomorrow. Besides, it's a holiday, Holmes! Bad enough that we had a client in the middle of Christmas Day, we are _not_ going to ruin the rest of the day by doing research into ghosts and ancient Bavarian castles!" I exclaimed firmly.

Holmes growled again, pacing nervously up and down the room in agitation. I sighed; some things would never change, his hatred of anything that impeded his investigations topping that list.

"Mr. 'Olmes?" Alfie's hesitant voice broke the silence.

Holmes muttered something unintelligible, ignoring him.

"Alfie, now is probably not the best time," I warned, but the lad looked pleadingly up at me.

"But, Doctor – can oi go wiv yew an' Mr. 'Olmes? Oi speak German better'n yew two do!"

"No!" Holmes said emphatically, the sentence jerking him abruptly out of his irritated state, "this case is no place for children."

"But me gran'ma says oi speak it better than mos' English –"

"I don't care about your grandmother!"

"Holmes!" I cried indignantly.

My friend flushed, realising how his unthinking statement must have sounded. "That's not what I meant!"

Alfie's big green eyes were wide and begging as he looked from one to the other of us. "Please, Mr. 'Olmes? Oi won' get i' the way, oi promise! Oi can be a big 'elp to yew!"

"Don't be ridiculous. You are staying here. Now run along, Alfie, I need those telegrams sent today."

The lad scowled at Holmes as the detective resumed his pacing, lighting a very old pipe and smoking something even more noxious than usual. Alfie turned to me with a last appeal for help, but I shook my head a bit sympathetically.

"You heard Mr. Holmes, Alfie. It's no place for a child."

"Oi ain't a child!" he cried indignantly, "oi'm near 'leven years old!"

"Yes, I know," I replied, trying not to smile, "but you still cannot come. Now run along, lad. Mr. Holmes is not in the mood to be sociable."

"'E never is," the urchin muttered, scowling once more at the aloof figure of the detective before allowing me to steer him toward the door, pausing once more to steal three lumps of sugar from the bowl.

When the door had closed behind the boy, I turned to see Holmes in complete concentration, enough smoke coming from his pipe that it was now roiling about the room and making the atmosphere decidedly unhealthy.

So much for a pleasant Christmas Day celebration at home.

Holmes smoked, scowled, and paced for the better part of the morning, only interrupting his irritated perambulations to snarl at the carolers who appeared outside our window in the glittering snow.

"Confound this holiday!" he snapped angrily, riffling through the files he had shoved behind his desk that morning, scattering paper in all directions.

I scowled, pulling the tray out from under the couch as I heard Mrs. Hudson on the stairs – no doubt approaching with our Christmas dinner which Holmes would promptly ignore in favour of recarpeting our flat with old case notes.

The good lady did enter, heavy goose-laden tray in her hands, just as Holmes tossed a scrapbook over his shoulder carelessly. The missile would have struck our landlady a hard blow on the head had I not dived forward and grabbed the object before it could do any damage, stammering an embarrassed apology as she turned an annoyed pair of sharp eyes upon me.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Mm?"

"How in heaven's name can you so thoroughly make a proper mess of this room in so short a time?"

I snorted, taking the tray from Mrs. Hudson and handing her the used one from breakfast, to which she rolled her eyes and refrained from asking where it had been all this time and why the eggs were now covered in dust bunnies.

"That is nothing, Mrs. Hudson – have you seen his bedroom today?"

"No, Doctor," she returned emphatically, "nor have I any desire to! I'll be back up with the pudding in just a moment."

The door slammed behind the longsuffering woman with undue force, causing a concentrating Sherlock Holmes to jump with startlement and glance up at me.

"What?"

"You're insufferable. Now leave that mess and come eat your dinner."

"I am not hungry, thank you."

"Holmes, it's Christmas dinner! That good woman spent hours preparing it – you have to eat it!"

"Just because the soft-hearted world celebrates this holiday is no reason for me to alter my eating habits, Watson!" he snapped irritably, stacking the papers in a motley pile and scanning the one on top of the stack.

Very well, if antagonism would not work then I would have to use other, more devious, methods.

"Holmes."

"Mmph. What."

"Please? I don't want to eat Christmas dinner by myself." I forced a pathetically lonely and pleading tone into my voice.

He squirmed uncomfortably on the floor, not meeting my eyes and acting as if he had not heard.

I added a rather sad sigh for good measure and rested my chin in my cupped hand, picking dismally at my food. I did not dare look at him for fear I should break into compulsive laughter, but a moment later I heard a growl and he tossed the papers down into the pile, stalking over and sitting across from me, folding his arms and glaring in my general direction – accepting defeat with even rather less grace than usual.

Without moving my head, I lifted my gaze to grin at him, and he snorted derisively, but the corners of his mouth twitched in a not-very-well-suppressed smile, and a moment later he began to chuckle softly. I grinned in triumph.

"You are an idiot."

"I know," I said cheerfully, helping myself to our landlady's excellent dressing.

He laughed.

"And you're a worse one for falling for it," I added, sipping my drink with tolerable smugness.

"Mmph."

"You forgot the 'Bah humbug' line."

"I am _not_ encouraging your ridiculous flights into romantic fiction, or anyone else's drivel for that matter!"

"Yes, well, a few of those 'flights' are what paid for your Christmas present – it's not like that last case from Lestrade even covered our cab fares!"

He frowned, carving a large piece of the goose in front of him. "Art for art's sake, Watson, you know that!"

"Yes, yes. But there's a reason artists are stereotyped as starving romantics living in poverty, only famous after their deaths."

"I'm famous, and I'm not dead!"

"No, but you _were_ until spring of this year."

He snorted a quick laugh.

"And who was it that made you famous after your death, hmm?"

"More goose?"

"Not the subtlest change of subject, Holmes."

"No. Well?"

I joined him in laughing, this time, and his black mood lifted more than a little. We spent the rest of the meal in a very enjoyable fellowship and decided to take a walk in the beautiful snow that evening; the wind had died and it really did not seem that cold, what with the cheery warmth from the soft lights and Christmas trees we could see through the house windows we passed, coupled with the general air of goodwill that permeated the capital for one day in the year.

"Holmes," I finally interrupted a detailed string of rather random deductions about the last couple we passed as we crunched along in the snow.

"Mmhm?"

"What did you make of the Count's story, besides a case of overwrought female imagination?"

"Not necessarily overwrought," he returned thoughtfully, glancing sideways at me, "for the events had to have been bad enough that the man was convinced to come all the way to us, and on a holiday – and he appears far more stolidly of this world than even a certain romantic doctor of my acquaintance."

"Not nice of you to talk about your cousin Verner like that," I replied with a dead-pan face.

Holmes snorted a laugh as we crossed the street, and I went on with a grin of triumph.

"It seems to me that you gave in to the story with rather less than your usual aversion to such things, though," I offered tentatively.

"To be perfectly frank, Watson, I have been bored out of my mind as you very well know ever since we sent the Morrison gang to prison three weeks ago," he replied with a sigh, "and even a ridiculous case such as this offers some tiny points of interest. And besides, it is not every day that we are offered an expense-paid trip to Europe."

"True. But somehow I think there is more to this than you're telling me," I said slowly, watching his face for his reaction. I saw none, saw that his eyes flitted over to me for a moment.

"Nothing concrete, Watson," he said absently as we walked along, tipping our hats to a young lady we passed on the corner. For a moment he remained pensive, and then he sent me another sideways glance.

"Do you believe in premonitions, Watson?"

The odd question was even stranger coming from the mouth of the foremost reasoner of our day, but I shook off my surprise and answered. "You mean visions of coming evil?"

"No, no, nothing so dubious. Just a…general sense that something is not right?"

"I prefer to think of that as instinct," I said cautiously.

He nodded approvingly. "Well, then. Something in my instincts tells me that there is more to this than just a legend. I cannot truly explain it to you, not from that angle at least. Let us attack it in a more concrete manner."

"Very well, then. What about the motive – obviously someone wants to prevent the marriage from taking place," I said thoughtfully, "a jealous suitor?"

"Or an heir who doesn't want the will changed," Holmes said pointedly. "or a half-dozen other reasons. We have no data, Watson, and cannot make theories without it – it is impossible. Blast this holiday, we could be on our way tomorrow morning were it not for this season of merrymaking!"

His temper was starting to return as we dodged a group of children tossing snowballs at passing carriages, scowling blackly at the cheery Christmas wreaths adorning the doors we passed.

"Oh, come on, Holmes."

"If you tell me one more time to 'relax and enjoy the holiday', I shall screech louder than any of those confounded carolers were outside our door this morning!"

I sighed – some things in life were truly hopeless.

We (or rather I) spent the evening cleaning up the mess Holmes had made before the Count had arrived, putting all mostly to rights before finally retiring. The next day, Boxing Day, we spent in something of the same manner - Holmes in smoking, growling, and generally destroying the sitting room and I in writing, avoiding his black temper, and enjoying the leftovers from our Christmas dinner.

I came down to the sitting room the next morning, sans a rude awakening by his devious methods, to find him already gone, the sitting room door open and half the papers I had so carefully put away the night before re-scattered across the settee. I shook my head with a sigh, seating myself at the table and pouring a cup of coffee.

I glanced down to see that he had stuck a note to the table with his pocketknife – how Mrs. Hudson would shriek if she ever saw that mark in the wood!

Snapping the knife shut with a sigh, I read the short message.

_Do not forget about the tickets, Watson. Pack warm clothing and bring your revolver and medical bag. If I do not see you before five this evening, meet me at Victoria at 5:20._

Honestly. Every time we left on a case I always brought the stated items along – Holmes could be worse than a woman about reminding me of the most obvious things.

Just then a notion struck me, and I warily stepped over to his bedroom.

As I thought. He hadn't even _started_ packing.

If I was to meet him at the station, I would have to pack for him and bring it along, like he no doubt knew I would do – the man hated to pack with every fibre of his being and would do anything short of murder to get out of the mundane task.

I so should pack his lightest summer clothing and most uncomfortable shoes. Or better yet, pretend I hadn't known he had not taken the luggage with him and show up at Victoria with only mine.

But I have not lived with the man for so long without acquiring an inhuman amount of patience, and so I sat back down with a sigh, reluctantly pushing thoughts of vengeance from my mind.

For now, at any rate.


	4. Landlord to a Ghost

_If a man harbors any sort of fear, it percolates through all his thinking, damages his personality, makes him landlord to a ghost."  
Lloyd C. Douglas_

* * *

Holmes folded up the Calais newspapers when there was finally not enough light from the train corridor to see without straining one's eyes and took out his silver cigarette case, offering one to me with a quirky smile before taking one himself and replacing it in his pocket.

"So, Holmes." I started the conversation.

"Yes?"

"Bavaria. You said that you wandered everywhere on the Continent and Asia while you were gone for three years. Did you ever make it to Bavaria?"

He leaned back, eyebrows furrowing in remembrance.

"Yes, briefly. Not long after the fiasco at the Falls."

I had come to terms with that memory long ago, but the flippantly callous mention of it was still enough to make me wince visibly.

"My apologies, Watson. That did rather sound like a sordid tabloid headline."

"Yes, I do believe one paper used that exact phrase if I recall correctly," I said dryly.

"Sounds like the _Yell_'s trademark lurid sensationalism."

"Probably was. That insufferable reporter Horton was waiting for me when I got back from Switzerland – accosted me as soon as I got off the train," I replied, my voice quieting suddenly at the remembrance.

Holmes paused in his smoking to glance uneasily at me. "Story-hunting vulture."

"Well, he wasn't the only one, there were at least a dozen of them."

He sat bolt upright, staring at me in what I could only assume was guilt or remorse. "A dozen?"

I nodded. "Thankfully the news had reached Scotland Yard by the time I arrived London. Lestrade was also there and got to me before I came in serious danger of killing one of them, getting me out of the melee and taking me home. He even had to post a couple of bobbies outside my consulting-room to keep the press away for a while. Not to mention the fact that Patterson had ordered a guard already just in case the nets had left any of the Moriarty gang at liberty."

"Remind me to thank Lestrade and Patterson when we get back," Holmes murmured, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

I chuckled at his discomfort. "How did we get onto that topic anyhow?"

"I've no idea…oh, yes. Bavaria. Well I was only there for perhaps a fortnight before continuing East. Probably late August of '91 – the weather was a far cry then from what it is now!"

"I can imagine," I shivered, glancing out the window at the swirling snow. "What did you do there?"

"Mm, nothing special."

"Oh, come on, there had to have been _something_!"

He laughed. "Now who's a story-hunting vulture?"

I joined him in a chuckle, and he leant back once more, steepling his fingers thoughtfully, his tone taking on a sombre note.

"I really didn't do much of anything that first year, Watson, other than dodging the remainders of the Moriarty gang."

I glanced back from the window to see his face lose all traces of levity, his eyes suddenly growing inestimably weary. He did not meet my gaze but fixed his eyes on the floor as he continued.

"I know those years had to have been a living nightmare for the people I left behind, Watson. But I assure you they were not pleasurable for me," he said quietly. "Living in fear that Moran or any of the other members of the gang would find out who and where I was, worrying about what was happening at home, scanning every face I passed in every town, trusting no one and –"

He broke off suddenly, as if realising he was divulging personal feelings, and for the first time I realised that however hellish his supposed death had been for me, the time had not been any easier on him.

Finally he looked up, quirking a smile at me, and went on. "Especially in those first few months. I hung about close to the coast to see how the Moriarty syndicate's trial went. Do you remember the details that came out about the higher-ups in the gang?"

When I hesitated, he turned and leaned forward to see my face in the soft light from the corridor. "Watson?"

"I wasn't at the trial."

"But they would have needed you as a secondary witness, since you were the one who took the evidence to Patterson."

I shifted uncomfortably, for this conversation I had started so innocently was becoming a rather personal matter on both sides.

"What are you not telling me?"

I sighed. "I was…ill, for several weeks after I came back from Switzerland. The last thing I can recall from that time was giving the file of evidence to Patterson and going to offer my condolences to your brother. Mary…" I swallowed hard at the still painful wound of her death before going on. "Mary told me later that I was nearly off my head with brain fever when I returned from Pall Mall and it was close to eight weeks before I regained my senses. I can't remember anything of that time at all."

"_What_?" I heard him breathe in a shocked whisper.

"And by then, the trial date was set but I was still too ill to attend. As I was not a crucial witness for the conviction it of course proceeded as planned." I shrugged uneasily, shifting positions in my seat.

"Watson…I – I had no idea –"

"Holmes, it's all in the past now," I said hastily, seeing the horrified look on his pale face, "there is no need to dredge up anything. I never would have told you, but you did ask. Now. What were you going to tell me about the Moriarty trial?"

Holmes swallowed visibly, averting his gaze for a moment before he went on.

"You may recall my telling you upon my return that there were three men that the trial did nothing to touch."

"Yes, I do seem to remember. Moran was one."

"The chief of the three. The other two were no less dangerous, just less familiar to me personally. I had to be on my guard every second – but I was lucky enough to apprehend one of the two while I was in Europe, in that first six-month period, and that was when I was in Bavaria. Actually, he was captured just over the border in Bohemia, but he had been in Bavaria when I started my chase."

"Ah. But Holmes - "

"He is still serving in prison there for grand larceny and attempted murder. Yes, I checked before we left England just in case, my dear fellow, don't look like that. I must tell you that tale sometime, Watson. But the tiny bit of culture I learnt while there is the extent of my knowledge of Bavaria and its inhabitants. I do wish I had practised my German a bit more - I'm a trifle rusty I fear," he admitted.

"Well you still know more than I do – I had enough trouble just with French and Latin in school; my German is average at best," I laughed, and when he joined me I felt the dark tension rise a bit from the rather dismal conversation of previously.

He made some remark about teaching me some, but I was growing rather sleepy and covered a wide yawn with my book.

"We've an eight-hour ride, Watson, before Strasbourg. Get some sleep."

"Are you going to be smoking all night?" I asked dubiously, for the atmosphere was growing rather hazy.

He laughed, glad to put our dour conversation behind and come back to more familiar territory. "No, no. I'd offer to open a window, but…"

"Don't you dare!" I gasped, seeing the frost on the panes already.

"No, I think that – wait."

My friend suddenly laid a finger to his lips, motioning me to silence. For a moment, we heard nothing but the frozen clattering of the wheels on iron rails, but then I perceived what Holmes's keener senses had already distinguished – a barely audible brushing against the compartment door.

Holmes glanced at me, waiting until I had shifted positions and nodded at him, and then he shoved the door open with an sharp bang.

Eliciting a small yelp from the little eavesdropper outside our compartment. _Not again._

"Get in here," he snapped, hauling the cringing lad into the compartment and shoving him into the seat across from the two of us.

"Alfie, what the devil are you doing here?" I gasped out at last, when the penitent Irregular turned his mournful attentions to me in an effort for a bit more sympathy.

"Followin' yew."

"Yes, Alfie, we _had_ managed to deduce that for ourselves," Holmes snapped, slamming the compartment door closed once more, "but we are now on the Continent – how in the world did you shadow us for so long without my seeing you?"

The lad scoffed. "Yer the one tha' taught me 'ow ta tail a bloke wit'out bein' seen, Mr. 'Olmes!"

I glared at the detective, who was now turning a very interesting shade of crimson.

"Pity you're such a good teacher, _'Mr. 'Olmes'_," I said icily.

Holmes sent me a scathing look before turning back to Alfie.

"I told you to stay in London. No, do _not_ interrupt me, young man. I don't care how well you speak German or how much help you think you are going to be to the Doctor and me, you are NOT coming with us! And that is final!"

Alfie winced at the detective's raised voice, shrinking back into the cushions like the frightened child he was, looking pleadingly at me for help; but I shook my head sternly – we could not possibly take him with us, he would just be in the way, and it could very well prove to be exceedingly dangerous. But how could we send him all the way back to London alone?

But just then the child did the unthinkable – those large green eyes welled up with big tears and he started to cry silently.

Holmes's face turned even redder, and I was hard put not to laugh, for I knew the lad well enough to see that it was a complete act; he was playing on Holmes's aversion to showing emotion.

My friend spluttered for a moment but finally dropped back into the seat with a long sigh.

"I suppose we can't send you back to London alone," he growled in annoyance.

This time I _did_ laugh, as the lad's tears instantly dissipated, being replaced by that impish grin we had seen so many times.

"But on one condition, mind," Holmes said sternly.

"Wha's tha', Mr. 'Olmes?"

"You do whatever Dr. Watson tells you to without question, hear?"

"What _I_ tell him to?" I asked in dismay.

"Yes, I'm putting you in charge of him this trip, you seem to be so sympathetic to him."

"But Holmes!"

"Would you rather take him back to London and then meet me later in Bavaria?"

"Not on your life, you'd get yourself killed within the week if I did."

"Then watch him."

"Oi won' be no trouble, Doctor, oi promise!" the lad begged.

"But – you don't even have a coat, Alfie!" I said in dismay, scanning over the boy's thin jacket and even thinner shoes.

"Oi'm all roight!"

"No, you're not. We'll have to get you a coat and scarf and so on in Strasbourg," Holmes growled, "I won't deal with a sick child."

"You never do," I replied dryly. Alfie looked at me, and I reluctantly patted the seat beside me and he hopped over to sit by me, repressing a shiver through his thin frame.

Indeed, when Holmes had opened the door it had let a very chilly blast through, and we could now see our breaths in the air inside the compartment.

"Blast it all, it's freezing in here now!" Holmes growled in irritation.

"Oi'm sorry," the lad's little voice piped up through the dim darkness.

"You should be, confound it. I'm going to go get some coffee, Watson."

"Holmes, you'll never get to sleep if you do that!"

"At least I won't be frozen over by the time we reach our destination!" he snapped, slamming the compartment door behind him.

Alfie sniffled, and I sighed, pulling off my coat.

"You've probably already caught your death of cold," I told him, making him put the coat on despite a very feeble protest. "What in the world were you thinking, following us all alone in this weather! _And_," I went on, an idea suddenly occurring to me, "where the devil did you get the money for the tickets?"

The boy squirmed on the seat beside me, his little face looking lost in the heavy folds of the coat.

"Tell me you didn't pick someone's pocket, Alfie!"

"Ummm…"

"There will be no more of that this trip, do you understand me? I'll ship you back to London without another thought if you nick anything else from passengers," I admonished in a very stern tone.

"Blimey, gov, a bloke's gotta make a livin' some'ow!"

"You won't have to 'make a living' when you're on this trip. Now promise me."

"'S no fun, Doctor."

"_Alfie?_"

"Oi promise, oi promise. Blimey."

I resisted the urge to laugh, instead concentrating on rubbing my arms for it really was freezing in the compartment. But the boy had been out in the weather since we left England with no coat, so I supposed I could do without it for a while.

The lad in question was very, very quiet, probably enjoying being warm for the first time since we had left England, and my thoughts turned back amidst the stillness of the compartment to that rather uncomfortable conversation Holmes and I had unwittingly stumbled into.

For a moment I tried to put myself in his place, thinking of what it had to have been like, running for his life across heaven only knew where for three years. Three years without a home, living in the constant watchfulness of a hunted man – how horrible. Granted, those years had not been pleasant for me either; but now more than ever I realised that I was not the only one who still held a few lingering ghosts from our past lives.

_**Holmes**_

One cup of coffee had turned into four, and I walked back to the compartment with my fifth, feeling the effects of the warmth and caffeine slowly bringing my nerves back into a sense of normality.

It had been exceedingly unsettling to discover what had happened to Watson after the Falls incident – not just the arrival in London and of having to avoid story-hungry press-hounds, but of his consequent illness. Yet another indication of what my ill-planned disappearance had caused.

Yes, we both knew and had discussed on multiple occasions that there had been no other alternative. But that did not change the past.

The past. How glad I was that it was indeed in the past. I firmly pushed all thoughts of those shadowed happenings into the furthest recesses of what I had told Watson was my 'brain-attic'. If Watson had been willing to lay those ghosts to rest, then there was no reason for me to dwell upon them.

And with a slightly lighter heart I pushed open the compartment door and hastily slid it shut behind me, trying to not let any more frigid air in than was necessary.

I stopped, smiling despite myself when I saw the scene within.

My dear friend had evidently given his coat to the ragged urchin who was now curled up on the seat beside him, fast asleep. Watson himself was huddled down in the seat, also sleeping but far less deeply, obviously cold from the way his rhythmic breath was crystallising in the air of the compartment, occasionally shivering slightly.

For a moment I pondered the magnanimity of a character that would do such a kind thing for a boy who had deliberately disobeyed my express injunctions – he certainly deserved nothing more than to be sent freezing back to London.

But I lingered only for a moment on the problem. I had my coffee, and the compartment would warm up after only a few more minutes of having the door closed. I shrugged out of my own overcoat and stealthily laid it over Watson, and was ridiculously pleased to see his face unconsciously relax and his body untense from his huddled position due to the arrival of warmth.

Then I settled back into the seat across from them and glanced out the window at the passing snow-covered French countryside. Tomorrow morning we should be in Strasbourg…

Strasbourg.

I glanced back across the compartment with a fond smile, remembering the last time I had been in Strasbourg.

_"He's escaped them! I should have known better than to leave such an important operation in the hands of those bumbling idiots at the Yard!" I hurled the telegram into the grate with a curse._

_"Moriarty?"_

_"Patterson says they've got the whole gang with the sole exception of its leader."_

_Watson's honest face blanched so white he could have blended in with the wall behind him, and he looked automatically around us as if wondering if the man was anywhere near._

_"What are we going to do?"_

_The question was quiet, tense. And underneath it all was fear – the same fear whose existence in my own heart I was desperately denying._

_"I think you had better return to England, Watson."_

_"Go back? Why?"_

_"Because you will find me a dangerous companion now." Because you'll be killed if you stay with me, you idiot – can't you see that? "The Professor's occupation is gone – he will now devote all his energies to revenging himself upon me."_

_"That's exactly why I am __**not**__ going back to London, Holmes."_

_I jerked my head up, wishing to heaven I could convince him to leave before he got himself killed in my company. But he was standing beside the fire, arms folded, glaring at me as if I'd just suggested he commit high treason._

_"Please go, Watson – it will just be easier on everyone."_

_"Easier on Moriarty to kill you, you mean."_

_"Watson –"_

_"Oh, stop it. You should know better than to ask such a thing," he said sorrowfully, regarding me with disappointment._

_"I did know better," I admitted, ashamed of the weakness that made me want to keep him with me – how selfish could I be?- "but I had to try, you know."_

_He smiled a little sadly. "I know. But I've never yet abandoned you when danger was near; I have no intention of starting now."_

And those words had rung in my head for months afterwards, the only comfort I had in a cheerless world after Reichenbach.

I glanced over at the two sleeping figures in the seat across from me, and felt myself relax slightly as the memories were pushed away under the comfort of a very genuine reality – he had 'no intention of starting now', at the present moment, either.

And no ghost, whether in a Bavarian castle or in my own mind, was safe to haunt me, not with Watson at my side. Which was a good thing, as this case hinted already at the existence of both possibilities.

* * *

**Note: The last line of the flashback scene was taken from the BBC Radio production of FINA – we certainly couldn't have put it any better than Bert Coules.**

**(cue drum roll) Next Chapter - a reunion with a certain midshipman and a persistent young reporter. **


	5. A Friendly Ghost

**A/N: PGF is returning today (as I post, in fact) so after this we might have a bit more time (and no 7 hour time difference) and might be able to really get underway. Meanwhile, enjoy!**

* * *

_"__Rain hangs about the place, like a friendly ghost. if it's not coming down in delicate droplets, then it's in buckets; and if neither, it tends to lurk suspiciously in the atmosphere.__"_

_Barbara Acton-Bond_

* * *

_**Watson**_

"Watson!"

I turned at my friend's shout, sighing rather heavily. We had been traveling for nearly an entire day now, and it was beginning to wear on my nerves. What with trying to keep one eye on an overactive ten-year-old pickpocket, and the other on the Bradshaw and our timetables, I was quite worn down.

I turned away from the luggage, the strain making my voice rather snappish.

"What is it, Holmes?"

Holmes trotted into view, our newly purchased tickets in his hands.

"Where is Alfie?"

"He's right here -"

I turned to motion to my left and found only empty air. I stared in shock at the spot where I had expressly ordered Alfie to stay, then groaned.

Not again.

Holmes was already peering into the crowd, cursing softly under his breath.

"Honestly, Watson, can you not keep track of one small child? You're a Doctor, for heaven's sake!"

"And that makes me a qualified nanny, does it?" I snapped at him, heaving my valise back onto the pile. "Stay here and watch our things…I'll find him."

Holmes opened his mouth to object, but I was in such a very foul mood that I deliberately pretended not to notice this and marched off into the crowd, my eyes peeled for the young scamp.

In retrospect it might have been wiser to let a trained observer such as he to conduct the search, but I would have felt foolish going back at that point and thus continued in my scan of the crowd.

He would not have gone far, not when he was so concerned about remaining in our company. I hoped.

Why in blazes could he not stay put! If anything, he seemed _more_ energetic now then when Holmes had caught him in the compartment.

No doubt it was the biscuits at lunch.

The ones I had warned Holmes against giving him.

But then he always had a weakness for his boys. I shook my head in despair, wondering if I actually was going to be dealing with two children this trip instead of one.

"Alfie!" I called into the crowd after a few vain moments of searching, then stopped in embarrassment as several heads turned, sending scandalised looks in my direction.

I had to go about this more logically, for we were short enough on time as it was.

What would attract a young London urchin in such a crowd as this?

I looked around at the expensive coats and numerous pockets of the travelers surrounding me, and my heart fell. The boy might be able to abstain from his usual habits for a little while, but in a crowd like this…how could he resist? What if he had been picked up by a constable?

My annoyance turned to concern and I turned a more urgent eye on the masses, calling out without reservation and in spite of the annoyed looks I received.

"Alife?"

My cries were lost in the press of humanity as it swarmed to and fro towards the various modes of transportation.

If the boy did not wish to be found it was unlikely that I should ever set eyes on him, and as the moments passed and there was no sign of him I realized that the best course of action would be to let the boy return to us in his own good time.

I was just about to turn back and find Holmes again so that we could plan a new course of action, when I felt something crash into the back of me.

I staggered to the side, knocking into a fashionably dressed woman with a small, very annoying dog in her arms, which promptly yipped and tried to gnaw my face off as I gasped an apology to its giggling mistress.

Then I turned to glare at my attacker, my patience entirely spent…the words died on my lips as I set eyes on a familiar youthful face, now flushed from his run.

"Alfie!"

The boy straightened and tugged impatiently on his new, stiff jacket and scarf. His eyes were wide and alarmed and he was panting for breath.

"Doctor!...I didn' do it!"

A dreadful sense of foreboding seized me at these words and I steeled myself for yet another unpleasant encounter.

"_What_ didn't you do, Alfie?"

The boy cast a hurried eye behind him, and pointed at a figure rapidly approaching us.

"Wot 'ee says Doctor, I didn' do nuffin'!"

The fellow shouted as he neared us and Alfie gave a small yelp before ducking behind my legs.

"Hey, that kid, there…"

Oh blazes…it was another American. Sherlock Holmes always joked about my being a magnet for the breed, based upon past experiences. A brash-mouthed colonial was the last thing I wanted to deal with right now.

But he was a young chap, with brown eyes that shone with indignation and ginger hair that had become disarrayed in his travels. He stopped short when I stood my ground and turned his scowl on me instead of the urchin that was peeking out from between my legs.

"Is there something I may help you with?" I asked, as politely as I could under the circumstances.

"Yeah." The American pointed as he began to get his breath back. "Is this kid yours?"

"Not exactly."

"Are you responsible for him?"

"I am."

"Well you might want to keep a closer eye on him in public places. The sneaky little devil pinched my wallet."

I sighed, relieved that the fellow looked more amused than angry. I reached behind me and pulled Alfie out from his hiding place.

"Oi!"

I took a firm hold on the squirming lad's shoulders and turned him round to face me.

"I didn' fink you'd peach on a bloke like tha', doctor," Alfie said, scowling and trying to wriggle out of my hold.

I gave him a slight shake and fixed my own face in a firm scowl, which was not overly hard to accomplish.

"Did you take this man's wallet, Alfie? After I specifically told you to refrain from -"

"Oi was on'y practicin'" Alfie defended himself, changing tactics. "Fellow's got ta keep tip-top shape, 's how I make me livin'."

"Really? And just _when_ were you going to return the wallet?"

Alfie fell silent and bit his lip.

"You could get Mr. Holmes and me in serious trouble if you continue this, Alfie," I said sternly, "It is too late to send you back, but you could cause serious delay; and Holmes could lose not only a client but a case. And you know what would happen then to you."

The Irregulars were not unfamiliar with Holmes's black moods when he was without a case, and the thought that he might become the sole object of my friend's wrath made Alfie visibly pale.

He pulled away from my hold in horror.

"Oi wouldn' do that Doctor…not to Mr. 'Olmes. Oi never would. Mr. 'Olmes would never forgive me. An' oi like workin' for 'im."

I cut off the boy's rant with a stern frown. He fell silent, looking at me pensively and sneaking a look or two at his most recent victim, who stood patiently by with an amused look on his young face.

"Not to mention the fact that this is against the law, Alfie. If you are going to be traveling with Mr. Holmes and me, you mustn't do anything that is against the law – it would totally defeat the purpose of justice that Mr. Holmes lives for," I went on, holding the lad's gaze until it dropped in shame.

"Oi'm sorry, Doctor," he finally muttered, scuffing a new boot against the pavement.

"Then I suggest you give this gentleman back his wallet, Alfie, with an apology…And thank your stars he was quick enough to catch you at it. Because if I had discovered this when it was too late then I would most assuredly have told Mr. Holmes."

Alfie scowled again and reached a grubby hand into his trouser pocket, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like an assortment of 'Stoolie', 'Canary' and 'Oi'll be quicker next time.'

He held out the wallet to the fellow, who took it with a smile.

"Much obliged, Master Alfie. You have quite a talent there."

I blinked in surprise – encouragement was definitely _not _what the lad needed – and then I took firm hold of Alfie's hand as he stuck his tongue out at the fellow, and was shocked to see the young American return the gesture.

Alfie grinned.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience he caused you." I apologised, seeing as the little irregular was not going to deliver such a sentiment on his own. "Thank you for your patience."

He shrugged, still smiling, "No harm done."

"Good day, then."

I made to disappear back into the crowd, intent on finding Holmes and ending this tiring journey, but the fellow's voice made me pause.

"Excuse me, sir. Did you say Mr. Holmes…Mr. _Sherlock _Holmes, by any chance_?"_

I took a bracing breath; Holmes was right, I should never have indulged myself in writing fanciful stories for the _Strand_.

I turned back, a polite smile plastered on my face.

"Yes, I am his associate Dr. John Watson…" I trailed off, taken aback by the expression that now adorned the fellow's face.

It was not so much a pandering smile…but a smirk. A secretive, delighted smirk…as if he knew something grand.

Whatever it was had missed me completely.

"I beg your pardon…who are you?" I said, my curiosity genuinely piqued.

He held out his hand, and I took it, though I was careful not to release my hold on my young charge.

"My name is Renie Haight, and it is an honor to meet you at last, Doctor Watson."

I frowned. "At last…do you know me from somewhere?"

"Aside from your stories, you mean? Oh yes, Doctor. I have heard a great deal about both you and Mr. Holmes."

Haight…Haight…the name was familiar, and yet I could not begin to place my finger upon it.

"Are you acquainted with Mr. Holmes?"

"No, but I have had the great pleasure of working with a friend of his. He's here now…we're on our way deeper into the continent."

"On the 11:00 train?"

Haight's smile widened, "The very same, Doctor! I take it you and Mr. Holmes are traveling on the same train? Perhaps we could share a compartment. I know my friend would be very eager to see you."

I pulled out my watch; we were running out of time, and just as well, as I was very curious.

"Certainly, I shall just fetch Mr. Holmes."

The American nodded.

"Right you are Doctor. Compartment 23 - if you leg it we should have it to ourselves."

I nodded and watched as he turned and disappeared into the crowd before starting for where I had left Holmes, Alfie in tow.

"Cor, Doctor…that was a weird sort of bloke…oo's this friend of Mr. 'Olmes 'e's talkin' about?"

"I suppose we'll find out." I said, pulling the lad along as swiftly as his legs could manage.

We found Holmes pacing impatiently in front of our luggage. He looked up and scowled as we approached.

"It is about time, Watson!" he snapped at me, completely ignoring his Irregular. "We haven't any time to lose."

"We never do," I reached for the luggage, releasing Alfie's hand and putting a small valise in his arms to keep him out of trouble.

"Holmes…do you know a man named Renie Haight?"

"Haight?" He snatched up his own bags distractedly, no doubt missing almost every other word in the cacophony that surrounded us in the station. "No, Watson, I haven't the foggiest."

"He's saving us a compartment. Number 23."

"Good, good. Let's go. Here now! Alfie, be careful with that – there's a microscope in it!"

Typical, once a case had been presented to his great mind Holmes was a singular in his thought as a hound on the hunt (save where his precious equipment was concerned). He set off rapidly through the crowds and I followed him.

It took only a moment to locate compartment 23 and only a few moments more to weave and in some cases push our way through the crowd towards it.

Holmes pulled the door open, tossed in his luggage, took mine from me to do the same and then swung himself up and into it.

"Do hurry, Watson."

I bit back a retort; I was too breathless to voice it anyway, and lifted Alfie into the compartment before mounting it myself.

At last I was able to shut the door firmly behind us and take a moment to catch my breath.

When I turned round to face the interior I was not surprised to see Holmes scowling at Mr. Haight, who was seated across from us, the knowing, pleased smirk still in place on his face.

"Holmes," I said, seating myself across from the young American. "This is Mr. Renie Haight, Mr. Haight…this is my good friend Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes scowled at me, "I am not an infernal celebrity, Watson; please do not introduce me as one! And if I am known, then it is entirely your fault."

"I am a fan of the Doctor's stories, Mr. Holmes." Haight said calmly, shaking my friend's hand, "But that is not how I know you."

Holmes turned his sharp eyes on Haight.

"Have we crossed paths before Mr. Haight?"

Again the smirk. Something stirred inside me, some intuition that told me I had forgotten something very, very obvious.

"No, Mr. Holmes, rather I have crossed paths with an old friend of yours, and he has told me a great deal about both you and Dr. Watson."

I exchanged a puzzled look with Holmes; outside of each other we did not have a great number of old friends, least of all one who was acquainted with both of us.

"And what, pray tell, is his name?" Holmes asked.

Haight opened his mouth to respond, then stopped at a sudden sound outside the door.

"See for yourself, Mr. Holmes."

The sound, heavy footfalls combined with a rather wandering whistle, reached my ears, and it was only a moment before the compartment door slid open, and the American's associate entered.

There have been very many instances in my life when I experienced mind-numbing surprises and other various shocks to my nerves. One grows used to it when living with Sherlock Holmes; indeed, I had become so acquainted with this that I had come to expect it and such instances did not present the same shock to me that they had in the past.

This instance was one of the few exceptions. I was dumbfounded.

Haight's friend cut short the odd little tune, something vaguely like a sea chanty, and closed the door behind him without properly observing the interior of the compartment.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes's jaw drop, and we both stared in absolute shock.

"No sign of the bloke Renie…your blasted curiosity's run away with you again. And they say that _sailors_ are superstitious…"

He stopped mid-sentence at the expression on his young friend's face, for the smirk had blossomed into a full-out grin.

He followed Haight's gaze and turned around to face us.

And then he froze, his clear blue eyes fixed on our faces, his good-natured, weather-beaten face immobile with a shock that mirrored our own.

I could hardly believe my eyes - for there in front of us, looking only a year or so older, and none the worse for wear, his beard and peacoat intact as ever…stood William Lachlan, our former midshipman from the _Friesland_ affair.


	6. Spirits Follow Us Everywhere

_All houses are __haunted__. All persons are __haunted__. Throngs of spirits follow us everywhere. We are never alone._

_-Barney Sarecky_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

Only once do I ever recall seeing such a look of blank astonishment on Watson's face, and that was the occasion of my unannounced return to life in his consulting rooms only a while ago.

I now have some understanding of just what sort of shock ran through his system at the sight of me, and how a man of his calibre could fall abruptly into a dead faint.

Not that the two situations were truly comparable…but I have some idea now at least, and some sympathy. For once in my life I was utterly incapable of action, and my mind was a complete blank. Judging by my friend's lack of response so was his.

It was Lachlan who first reacted, opening his mouth to speak, his eyes darting from one to the other of us.

The sound that emerged from his throat was less a coherent sentence than a strangled squeak, a noise that I found difficult to reconcile with the former midshipman.

This was enough to trigger Watson however, and in an instant he had sprung to his feet and had clasped the sailor's rough hand in one of his own, his face positively illuminated with sheer delight.

"Lachlan! I can't believe it!"

He wrung the hand firmly and it made a very amusing picture, Watson grinning like a schoolboy and Lachlan resembling a shell-shocked horse.

"Doctor…Mr. Holmes…what the devil?!"

I laughed, recovering myself at last, "I see your time away from the sea has not improved the color of your vocabulary any midshipman."

Lachlan laughed incredulously, his face breaking at last into a smile. "The Devil." he repeated and clapped Watson on the back before turning to me and fairly yanking me to my feet in his eagerness to shake my hand.

Then I coloured as he pulled me into a rough and rather abrupt embrace before shoving me away again to get a good look at me.

"And it looks as though you've managed to stay in one piece, detective…it's a miracle."

"Not through any cooperation on his part," Watson said.

I snorted. "You are hardly the best role-model in terms of refraining from risks, my dear Watson."

Lachlan looked the good Doctor up and down, "And you look a mite better than when I saw you last, Doctor."

Watson's smile did not fade but rather grew fonder. "Thanks to you, my dear chap."

Lachlan laughed again, one hand on each of our shoulders. "I can't believe it." he said softly, repeating Watson's first exclamation. "How the devil…"

He turned abruptly to face Haight, a scowl taking over his face.

"Renie!"

The lad, who had been struggling with suppressed laughter, now let it break forth, sliding limply down his seat.

"Renie, what on earth possessed you!"

Haight raised his head, endeavoring to get a hold of himself.

"Sorry…sorry, honestly, I couldn't help it." He gasped, his face red with mirth. "But your face, Lachlan….and the…the…"

He let out a fair imitation of Lachlan's squeak and collapsed in a renewed bout of laughter.

"It's not funny!" Lachlan growled, visibly bristling. "You brought them here. You knew all along…"

Haight nodded weakly, seemingly incapable of speech.

"There was no one in the corridor…you led me on a wild goose chase just so I would come back and nearly have a heart attack!"

His only response was a hiccoughing laugh and he turned his back on his companion with a despairing sigh.

"Mr. Holmes…Doctor…you've already met my associate, Mr. Renie Haight."

"That actually, was not his fault," Watson admitted. "I was chasing after this urchin here. Mr. Haight was good enough to intercept him for me."

He motioned towards Alfie, who was perched on one of the seats beside the window, gawking at us.

"Blimey," he whispered, his eyes still wide. "Yew's a right bunch of nutters, the lot o' yew."

Lachlan smiled at the lad. "Hullo, Alfie. I remember you."

"N'well you should, mate." Alfie chirped, then he grinned. "I remember yew too, yew were the bloke wot saved Mr. 'Olmes."

"More times than one," I added. "Lachlan, what in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"We're on our way to Vienna, little matter that Renie's newspaper set us on."

"Newspaper." Watson perked up at this statement and turned to look at Haight, who had finally managed to compose himself.

"You're the reporter…The one that was tailing Lachlan in India."

Haight grinned, "I'm honored, Doctor Watson…to be known to an accomplished writer such as yourself."

"Watson's stories are more accurate than yours," Lachlan muttered. "You complain of the Doctor's accounts being romanticized, Holmes, but Renie's…"

Renie scowled. "Now hold on."

"I think I remember that account about India." Watson said, his face lighting with an eagerness I recognized only too well and had come to be wary of. "It was quite interesting…do you often write of Lachlan?"

"Watson." I began wearily "please…"

Watson cleared his throat and reseated himself, and we were quick to follow suit.

"You have been rather lax in your promise of updates, old boy," I told the midshipman. "It won't do; I expect a full report before we part ways here."

Lachlan smiled and leaned comfortably back in his seat.

"Well, we have a long trip ahead of us for storytelling, Holmes. I would be glad to hear what the two of you have been up to as well, and where you're going."

I turned to Watson, who was leaning forward eagerly in his seat.

"You are the storyteller, Watson."

Lachlan chuckled and Haight slipped a slim notebook out of his coat, flipping it open and waiting with an eager look for Watson to begin. His posture was so like Watson that I was hard put not to laugh myself. It seemed that our midshipman had indeed acquired a Boswell of his own.

American or no, his eyes sparked with a sharp intelligence and there was a forwardness in his manner that I knew could come in very useful.

I must remember to ask him if he'd ever been to Chicago…the American criminal underworld had always held an interest for me.

_**Watson**_

The next few hours were spent in one of those friendly and involved conversations which you hope never to end.

Not only did I fill Lachlan in on our lives, but we then spent a great deal of time hearing about the adventures of his and Mr. Haight's. Lachlan had wasted no time in finding excitement after he parted way from Holmes and me. His second day in India he had found more work drafting maps (he was not able to do anything much more active due to his broken wrist) and almost at once had gotten himself mixed up in a strangling case, a conniving trader looking to up his prospects by strangling his partners with a silken cord in the manner of the Thugee cults of India.

This imitation had thrown the official forces but our midshipman had seen through it and had led to a hair-raising chase in which Lachlan managed to delay the villain until the police had time to arrive, though the effort had cost him a worsened wrist and a few broken ribs.

It had also drawn unwanted attention in the form of Haight, whom Lachlan called more familiarly Renie, and I had to admit that the name suited him, with his shock of auburn hair and his flinty brown eyes, very well.

Renie had found him without too much trouble, hiding in a village in Nepal where he had hoped to recover before he was discovered.

Driven from this hiding place by Renie's pestering he had traveled south to Calcutta, where he had run into a second case involving a rise in malaria, an odious swamp, and a very large snake. Renie followed him here as well, and in a supreme effort to shake him off Lachlan had made his way across the Middle East, finally ending in Egypt.

Much to his consternation, he discovered that he was a well-known figure by this time and was approached by the official forces of Cairo as well as the department of antiquities, to work on a third case.

Frustrated by his sudden reputation, and the fact that it was all Renie's fault, he had tried to avoid the case.

"I can well sympathize with you now, Holmes." Lachlan said with a sidelong look at Renie.

Holmes chuckled, his hand trying valiantly to hide a smile, as he listened with great interest.

"I take it Mr. Haight's ingenuity did not end there."

Lachlan snorted. "I dunno why I even bothered a third time…'twas only my second day there when I realized someone was tailin' me in a dark alley. I doubled back, tackled him, and realized that I had caught none other than my annoyingly persistent shadow."

"Annoying?" Haight said with mock hurt. "Where would you be if I hadn't remained annoyingly persistent?"

"Probably lost in the Nile by now," Lachlan said, his face softening slightly.

"Remarkable," I breathed, even as my stomach squirmed with the thought of all the close scrapes that our midshipman had gotten himself into without us there to watch him. "Did you end up taking the Cairo case?"

Renie nodded. "I wouldn't let him take no for an answer…knew it was a big chance for both of us."

"And now we're being pestered by his blasted newspaper for new stories and adventures wherever we set foot," Lachlan scoffed, though I could see the familiar twinkle in his eye that meant he was not truly sore…indeed…I think he must have relished the pattern his life had fallen into.

Renie sighed in mock despair. "It's not their fault that you are a magnet for such events Lachlan, nor my fault that I was assigned to you."

Lachlan snorted. "You weren't 'assigned'. You were supposed to be coverin' a new shipping line in Bombay...then you stuck to me like a human burr, and your cracknob stories are so flippin' popular your paper decided to roll with it."

"And now you're on to Austria?" Holmes interjected, forestalling any further verbal jousting. "Still at the bidding of the paper?"

"Unofficially," Renie said, giving Lachlan a sidelong look. "The midshipman here says he wants nothing to do with them but I got him a proper account set up and they're setting aside a nice bit of dough for him when he finally comes to his senses. They send me along to make sure he doesn't end up six feet under earlier on than he has too. He's too valuable to them."

Lachlan said nothing as Renie smirked; it was obviously an old argument that, with time, had died down into an unspoken compromise. I had to admit that considering Lachlan's independent and rather proud nature such freelancing would be a marvelous arrangement for him. And I had little doubt that Renie would eventually persuade him to take the funds that were being set aside for him.

That was, if Lachlan didn't kill him first of course.

The conversation drifted into other matters and time passed quickly so that soon enough we found ourselves at the next station, and yet again struggling to maneuver ourselves and our luggage through the crowd.

It was some comfort that Lachlan and Renie again were due to take the same train as us, and so our small group was able to cut a respectable path through the mass of people.

Still, we were jostled about a bit and it was near impossible to keep track of everything, let alone Alfie, who was eyeing the pockets of passersby with great interest.

Holmes and Lachlan, who, due to their respective heights had an advantage in such crowds, had drawn ahead of us. It was at this moment that I saw Alfie pause to examine a group of exceedingly well-dressed men standing just beside the tracks, and who looked as though they would not notice the Irregular if he fairly leapt into their pockets.

I cursed under my breath, wishing for all the world that we had discovered some way to send him back to London. I shifted my luggage to my left arm and turned back for him, struggling even more now that I was going against the flow of traffic.

I approached silently, fearful of calling his name, lest his unsuspecting targets look up and notice his less than legal actions.

He jumped in alarm when I brought my hand down on his shoulder and looked ready to bolt. I tightened my hold and gave him a disapproving glare, freezing him instantly.

I drew him away a little to the left.

"Alfie…how many times do I have to tell you?"

"I wasn' gonna, Doctor. Truly!"

I sighed angrily, took firm hold of his hand and made to go after the two swiftly-vanishing forms of my friends.

Only just then there was a large surge of people, some scuffle or other accident had broken out, causing a rather frantic wave in the crowd. I looked, trying to see what was amiss – and felt someone fall heavily into me…a thickset arm connecting with my stomach.

I grunted and stumbled back, and my heart thrilled in terror when I felt nothing connect with my feet.

I fell backward, dragging Alfie with me, and both of us hit the ground with a bone-numbing impact.

Stars burst on the back of my head and the wind was knocked from me…I was disoriented, I couldn't think where I had landed.

There was metal and gravel beneath me.

The tracks.

Alfie and I had landed on the tracks, and there was a slight vibrating beneath my head that drove my heart into a racing terror.

I smelt the singe of burning oil and hot iron, heard the terrible metallic screeching of the train, and knew that it was still at a speed that would cause us damage.

I struggled to raise myself, to find the child, but my head was spinning...

Then a sinewy, strong hand was gripping the back of my collar and pulling me forward, I hit the concrete platform and began to lever myself up it with my rescuer's help. I dimly heard Alfie's young, anxious voice beside me.

All this happened in only a few seconds, though it seemed to take a great deal longer - then just as I made the platform, a great whoosh of speed blasted us and incredible power as the locomotive rushed past us.

I turned my face away from the breeze it created and waited until at last…it chugged to a stop.

Time seemed to resume its normal course at last, and I sat, gasping for breath and shaking like a leaf, suddenly aware that something warm was running down the back of my head.

I heard two others panting beside me and knew one of them to be Alfie, his small hand was latched onto my arm.

"Doctor?" Asked a voice that I had not yet known long enough to be familiar with.

I raised my head, and saw the pale countenance of Renie Haight, his face quite as white as I supposed my own to be. One hand on my shoulder, I could not tell who was shaking worse.

"Are yew oll roight, Doctor?" Alfie chirped, by far the most composed of all three of us.

I nodded hastily, straightening and looking at the still-steaming train behind me…no more than two feet away.

I had dropped my luggage - my larger bag lay perched on the edge of the platform and my valise had vanished under the wheels. I shuddered as it dawned on me how close Alfie and I had come to sharing its fate.

"My God," I whispered hoarsely, "Haight…"

The lad let out a shaky breath and released his death grip on my shoulder.

"Doctor, are you all right?" He repeated Alfie's question.

"I'm…I'm fine." I slowly reached up to feel my head, and felt not only a growing bruise but also a small gash, from which a rather copious stream of blood was flowing.

Haight fished out a handkerchief and passed it to me. I pressed it to my head as he moved to gather up the fallen luggage.

Alfie had not released me, and was still watching me with fearful eyes, his voice rose in a rather frantic flood of speech.

"Doctor…yew fell. And you wouldn' get up, like a bloke wot's had too much ta drink, an' oi tried to help, but yew was too 'eavy, and that crazy bloke there pulled us out quick as a whip and…"

"I know Alfie…I know…" I tried to straighten myself out and take a steadying breath. "Are you all right my boy?"

"Cor Doctor, I don' 'ave a scratch on me…but yer bleedin' rightly out o' your 'ead, like a bloomin' melon wot's burst."

There was no stopping his partly-hysterical tirade, which was something of assurance as to the boy's state and condition.

"Watson!"

All three of us turned at the shout to see Holmes and Lachlan drawing close.

I got to my feet just as they reached us, Alfie rising with me with a supportive grip on my trouser leg.

Holmes drew to a halt in front of me, dropping his bags and gripping my shoulders. His face was dead white, and Lachlan peered at me over his shoulder, face grave with concern.

"Watson, what happened?!"

"I'm fine, Holmes, really, there was just a jostling in the crowd and I fell onto the tracks."

"An' Mr. 'Aight pulled 'im back!" Alfie piped shrilly.

Holmes looked to Haight, who had just returned with our bags – what was left of them.

"You." He seized hold of Renie's hand, startling the poor shaken young man even further.

"Mr. Haight, I can see why Lachlan keeps you around…thank you."

Lachlan let out a small chuckle, "All right, Doctor?"

"I am fine!" I insisted for the fourth time. "I don't believe it to be a concussion. May I suggest that we make our train before it leaves? "

Holmes nodded, seeing the wisdom of this, but he was still troubled and took my bag from Renie with a shaking hand.

"Come on, Watson, gentlemen…and once there I am having a look at your head."

I was too shaken to argue with this, and followed my friend, with a backwards glance and a shudder at the great iron engine which had so nearly snuffed out the life of the little Irregular and myself.

* * *

**A/N: Holmes's Chicago fetish is taken from the book, "Sherlock Holmes and the Ice Palace Murders" by Larry Millett. A very excellent read if anyone were interested in looking it up.**


	7. This Sort of Weather

_You know, I'm beginning to understand why ghosts moan so in this sort of weather._

_- Lester Cole (1904–1985), U.S. screenwriter_

* * *

_**Watson**_

The colour had not yet returned to Holmes's face by the time Lachlan had appropriated a compartment, his grim countenance being more than enough to scare away the young couple that had been heading for it at the same time as the sailor. My head was pounding rather, but other than that I experienced no dizziness or nausea; obviously the blow had not been serious.

The little boy who had taken the fall with me, however, had been very much frightened by the whole affair and refused to let go my hand, even after we had collapsed in the compartment.

"I don't believe I thanked you yet, Haight," I said a bit unsteadily, glancing at the American, who squirmed uncomfortably, "I'm no lightweight, you know."

"Yes, I found that out the hard way," he returned with a droll grin.

Lachlan snickered. "He's not half as scrawny as he looks, is he Doctor?"

Haight scowled, elbowing the midshipman in the ribs with more force than one would expect from looking at the young American.

"Yer 'ead's still bleedin', Doctor," Alfie said, his little face pinched with worry as he patted my arm.

"Let me see it, Watson."

"Holmes, it's _fine_, for heaven's sake!" I said, wishing desperately that he would calm down – to outward appearances he was, but I could tell the affair had shaken him. There was something odd in his expression, something far more than just a slight scare.

I saw Lachlan glance at Holmes, then back to the little boy sitting next to me, and back to Haight.

"Come along, master Alfie, I'm going to go get some cocoa – would you like to go with me?" the latter said, standing and stretching.

Alfie shook his head, glancing at me.

"Go on, lad," I said wearily, rubbing my eyes as the pain in my skull increased.

The boy scowled.

"And I do believe I saw chocolate custard on the luncheon menu in the dining car…" Haight continued, stepping out into the corridor and holding out his hand to the lad.

The boy's scowl faded slightly, and Holmes nudged him gently toward the door.

"Sure, Doctor?"

"Go with Mr. Haight, Alfie," I replied quietly.

"Oll roight then. Take care of 'im, Mr. 'Olmes," the boy ordered peremptorily, hopping out after Haight. Lachlan threw us an understanding glance and then shut the door after him, leaving us alone in the compartment.

I slumped back against the seat, not bothering to keep up a cheerful pretense now that the others were gone.

"Tilt your head down," I heard a dangerously unsteady voice close to my ear, and I obeyed with a sigh.

"Nasty bruise you're going to have," he said gently, keeping the handkerchief against the small gash.

"It is not life-threatening, so for heaven's sake relax, Holmes," I said in exasperation, closing my hand over his and taking the handkerchief from him.

He settled back in the seat with a frown, watching me.

"What?"

"I don't like it, Watson."

"Well, falling in front of a moving locomotive isn't my idea of a pleasant pastime, either."

"This is not a joking matter!" he snapped viciously, his voice tense, eyes sharp and narrowed.

"It was just a freak accident, Holmes," I said soothingly, "those things happen in a crowd that size…"

"No."

"Holmes –"

"I told you in London, Watson, that I did not like this affair at all," he whispered, lighting a cigarette with nervously twitching fingers, "and I like it even less every hour that goes by."

"Personally, I'm not overly keen on the case myself at the moment," I sighed, gingerly removing the handkerchief – the bleeding had stopped finally.

"There is far more to this than mere ghosts and myths, more than shadows and noises in the night, my dear friend," Holmes went on pensively, sternly reining in his rampant emotions and reverting back to cold, hard logic, "far, far more."

The compartment door opened and Lachlan poked his head in.

"May I?"

Holmes motioned him to a seat, and our old friend sat across from us, his blue eyes clouded with worry.

"I've been talking to the lad and Renie – neither of them remember seeing who shoved you, Doctor."

"I didn't get shoved, Lachlan, just accidentally bumped," I said with a sigh, slumping down in the seat and rubbing my head absently.

"Perhaps," the sailor said dubiously, "and perhaps the bloke was actually after Renie, not you."

"Possibly," Holmes replied with a thoughtful puff, "but you said you both were not on a case right now?"

"No, we're not," the man admitted, "and frankly I can't think of anyone who would be after us…_yet_. If anyone's out to kill the lad, it should be me, anyhow."

I laughed with reactive relief, and even Holmes cracked a smile.

"By the way, Holmes, you owe me twelve shillings – that child of yours can _eat!_" Lachlan exclaimed, indicating his limp pocketbook.

"Watson is handling all things Alfian this trip," my friend said with a twinkle, going back to his cigarette.

I spluttered, but Lachlan winked at me, and I realised the whole exchange had been to pull Holmes out of whatever mental hole he had retreated into after the near-accident. I was glad to see his brow clear and by the time we had reached the next stop, he was more like his normal self. As normal as Sherlock Holmes could be, at any rate.

"Oh, blazes!" I exclaimed in dismay, suddenly remembering something.

"What's the matter?"

"My journal! It was in that valise that got flattened under the train!"

Holmes winced visibly at my unthinking remark.

"Sorry. But Holmes!" I sat back sadly, "it had all my notes so far for the case in it!"

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Lachlan offered, "anything else of value in the bag?"

"Not of great value, thank heaven," I said ruefully, "nothing irreplaceable."

"I'm sorry about the journal, old chap," Holmes said graciously – I had been half-expecting an unsympathetic comment about florid romanticism but it never came. "You do still have your pen, I hope?"

I patted my pocket with a fond smile, which he returned warmly.

"We'll get you a new toothbrush at the next station," he went on impertinently.

I scowled, and Lachlan chuckled lightly, and in the catching up of conversation in the next hour or so, the close call of the afternoon was forgotten.

* * *

"Well, gents, this is where we part ways, I'm afraid," Lachlan said, a note of false cheerfulness ringing in his voice as he glanced from me to Holmes.

We had arrived at the last stop for us – one of the Count's grooms was to meet us here at the station, though as yet he had not made his appearance.

"Oi don' wan yew ta leave, Mr. Renie!" Alfie fairly wailed, latching onto his newfound friend in a vise-like grip.

The young American smiled, gently disengaging the boy.

"Perhaps if you behave yourself for Dr. Watson, I'll send you a postcard from Vienna, all right?" he asked with a grin.

I turned my attention back to our old friend, my mind reverting to that horribly dangerous case those eight months ago, in which his assistance had been vital to aiding Holmes in saving my life on the _Friesland_.

"You will stop and see us on your way back through?" I asked quietly.

"Aye, wouldn't miss it for anything," the sailor replied, his blue eyes twinkling affectionately at me. "And when I do, we'll have to exchange ghost stories, Doctor."

"It's a promise," I replied with a smile. Holmes gave a very undignified snort.

"Remind me to make myself scarce from that discussion. Ghost stories, indeed."

Lachlan guffawed. "Famous last words, Mr. Holmes."

"Here now, none of that 'Mr.' business, my good fellow," Holmes interjected with an uncharacteristically large smile.

"As you like. And I'll be interested to hear if you can make a ghosthunter out of him yet, Doctor," the man replied, grinning openly at Holmes's disdain.

"We shall see," I said, also grinning.

"I do believe that to be the Count's trap – no, it's a sleigh, by Jove," Holmes said, craning his neck to look along the snow-drifted path leading from the tiny country station.

"The lad will like that," Lachlan said, grinning at the boy, now engaged in a brief snowball fight with Haight – who oddly enough seemed to be having as much fun as our Irregular was.

"Renie! The gentlemen's transportation is here – and this train's about to pull out anyhow," the sailor called, seeing the conductor start to ensure the doors were firmly shut against the chill.

Holmes swore softly, glaring at both the conductor and the Count's hired hand as if they were solely responsible for our having to say goodbye, but Lachlan just laughed lightly, shoving his young companion toward a compartment as the whistle blew.

Haight leaned out the door to grasp my outstretched hand.

"Thank you again, Haight," I shouted over the spluttering engine.

"My pleasure, Doctor!" he bellowed back as Lachlan shoved him into the compartment.

"We shouldn't be more than a week, Holmes," the midshipman called out of the open door, firmly ignoring the poor conductor who was trying to shut it, "we'll look you up soon as we get back from Vienna!"

"One week, or we'll come looking for you!" I called back, waving as the train began to slowly jerk along the tracks.

Lachlan smiled and waved back, as his young friend opened a window to do the same, hastily ducking back inside when Alfie whooped and let loose with the last of his snowball arsenal straight at the opening. Our sailor laughed aloud, gave one more wave, and finally shut the door, to the conductor's relief, just as the train started to move out of the station.

I sighed regretfully, for I had been so very glad to see Lachlan once again and to meet his young reporter as well – already I owed the man for saving my life at the last station. I felt Holmes's comforting hand on my shoulder.

"I know, old chap. But one week – that gives us time to talk the Count into taking on two other uninvited houseguests," he said, the grin evident in his voice behind me.

I chuckled, taking a very dismal Alfie's hand and following my friend over to where the sleigh was pulling up beside the station. A heavily-bundled man jumped out, pushing his fur-lined hood back to reveal a good-natured, thin face, set with dark eyes and hair.

"Herr Holmes, Doktor Vatson?" he asked with a heavy German accent, glancing quizzically from one to the other of us. As there was no one else at the station, it was no great deduction.

"I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Keller, Chief Groom at Weissberg Castle. The Count informed me that you would have another in your party?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Holmes said dryly, fixing Alfie with that glare that could make anyone but me and Mycroft quake in his shoes, "this lad followed us from London and I was unaware of the fact until we were well on our way to Strasbourg. I do apologise for the inconvenience."

Keller turned those dark eyes onto our little companion with a frown. Alfie glanced hesitantly up, then spoke rapidly.

_"Ich kann deutsch besser als die beiden, weil meine Großmutter eine Deutsche ist. Ich habe nur versucht zu helfen ich wollte keine Last sein!"_ the lad reeled off a list of pleading German.

Keller's eyebrows raised. "Of course you did not mean to be burdensome," he said in a gentler tone, continuing to speak English. "Is the _Kind_ correct, gentlemen, that he speaks better German than you do?"

"Quite," Holmes growled in irritation.

Keller chuckled, the frown disappearing, and pulled his hood back up, motioning us to the sleigh. "I am sure the Count will not mind. Here, allow me to take those bags, Herr Doktor."

Within five minutes, we had loaded our luggage into the sleigh. Alfie was fairly bouncing beside me on the seat as we settled in for the ride, pulling up the many blankets the groom had placed in the vehicle.

"It is a two-hour ride, gentlemen," the groom called down from the seat, "and the temperature is dropping rapidly this time of the evening. I shall be driving rather quickly, so please to keep your heads inside."

Holmes motioned to the fellow that we were ready, and we set off at a fast clip through the tiny town with its one church, two pubs, and a smattering of houses, on through to the other side and out into the country. The snow was so incredibly deep that any other means of transport save horseback would be utterly impossible.

"How are you feeling, Watson?"

"Just a headache, nothing more serious."

A small twitching smile crossed his face before he looked away at the glittering snowy countryside. "Good man."

"Blimey!" Alfie breathed as we passed a grove of snow-laden evergreens, "Oi've neva seen so much snow in me 'ole life!"

I nodded wordlessly – the snow and biting air actually felt very soothing against my still dully-throbbing head.

"Get used to it, we shall be here for quite a while," Holmes groused, huddling up in the blankets with a shiver. "It's deucedly chilly."

"You know, if you did not have all the bulk of a telegraph post, you might be a bit warmer," I told him, yanking Alfie back under the covers as he let in frigid air with his excited bouncing. "Here now, sirrah! No more of that, you sit still!"

Holmes pulled a very childish face, growling under his breath but thankfully refraining from any further grumbling for an hour, shivering in silence. Alfie vacillated back and forth from asking innumerable questions about the country itself to watching the horse pulling the sleigh and staring wide-eyed at the snow around us, glittering in the shimmer of a mountain sunset.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?" I asked with a smile as the boy's jaw dropped upon seeing the mountains in the distance, tinged with gold and red now as the sun dipped lower.

"Cor, yes, Doctor!"

Holmes muttered something about lurid romanticism, which (as was my habit) I totally ignored. "What does it look like in the summer, Holmes?"

"Like this, without the snow."

"You can be so deucedly infuriating!"

"And you are just _now_ discovering that about me?"

Alfie hooted, putting out a hand to get showered with white icy spray shooting back from the sleigh runners. I thought no more about his behaviour, being engaged in countering Holmes's barbed sarcasm, until he then snickered and stuck his mittened hand under my muffler, freezing my bare neck.

I yelped instinctively, cringing and swatting the mischievous boy, and Holmes only laughed, confound him. "See why I put him on the other side of you, not between us?"

"Alfie, you do that one more time and I swear, I will –"

"Better listen to him, lad, I recognise that tone all too well," Holmes intoned, leaning over me to whisper conspiratorially, "he gets that way when – urf!"

Now it was my turn to howl with laughter, as the grinning boy had just filled Holmes's face with loose snow which he proceeded to shake off into my lap, yowling about revenge and shipping the lad back to England in a portmanteau with no air holes.

Between the two of them, my headache had not subsided much by the time we arrived at Weissberg Castle, but I soon forgot my discomfort in the awe-striking medieval glamour of the massive stone edifice.

"'Oly bleedin' mackerel," Alfie breathed, his small neck craning to see the battlements up at the top, "looks jist loike a real castle!"

Holmes snorted. "It's probably draughty, cold, and rundown. Don't be expecting armoured knights, Alfie. Or damsels in distress, Watson," he added snidely as the sleigh went over the drawbridge – was that a real moat under that ice? – and pulled to a stop in front of the massive oaken front doors.

I was still fumbling indignantly for a reply to that shot when Keller held out a hand for Alfie, swinging him to the ground and receiving a grin of thanks from a little face red with the cold.

Holmes hopped down the other side and I followed him, just as the doors swung wide to throw a glowing beam of warm light out into the twilight. A very stiff, very formal manservant emerged, bowing rigidly to us.

"The Count requests your presence as soon as you are sufficiently thawed, gentlemen," he said in precise, formal English.

Alfie started to snicker at the prim man's attitude (which was as warm as the out-of-doors was at the moment), but I shook his hand warningly and he quieted, giving only a faint snort from behind a mitten.

From behind us we heard Keller asking in German where the luggage was to be sent, and I gathered that the servant's name was Lehmann and that we were staying on the second floor of the castle. More than that I did not hear as we entered the warm entryway and so exited hearing range.

"Behave yourself now," I hissed to Alfie as another immaculate servant took our snow-soaked outerwear. I glanced round at the enormous entryway, complete with vaulted ceiling and polished floors – obviously our Count had no intention of allowing the place to remain medieval or rundown, for it was quite modern and lavishly furnished.

Alfie's mouth was hanging open, as I had no doubt the lad had never seen such opulence in his life, but he had the sense to snap it shut as Lehmann entered, fastidiously brushing a snowflake off his black sleeve, and motioned for us to follow him.

Holmes rolled his eyes at the man's back, causing our small companion to hide a snicker behind his hand, and I sighed wearily – this was going to be a long, _long_ case.


	8. Their Walls Ooze Ghosts

_The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze __ghosts__._

_-Italo Calvino_

* * *

_**Hey guys! I'm back! Can't say how much I've missed this, and I'm thrilled that you're all loving the story so far. Thanks for all your kind reviews and patience for my jetlag, not to mention many welcome backs that I got in reviews for a few of my other stories. **_

_**Enjoy the chappie, much more to come.**_

_**-PGF**_

* * *

_**Watson**_

Lehmann led us swiftly through the darkened corridors which, as with all castles, were unheated, and I was very grateful that we soon left them for a second room, still very large, but warmed by an enormous fire at one end and well-lit throughout.

This room was also fastidiously kept and well furnished, with comfortable-looking leather chairs and several tables. Alfie's eyes caught at once upon a decorative statuette upon a beautifully carved table, and as all children are wont to do, he tried to reach out and touch it.

I took a firmer grip on his hand and pulled him away from it turning to face the occupants of the room, whom Holmes was already addressing.

There were four, the Count seated nonchalantly in an armchair beside the fire, another younger man spread across a couch, a young woman reading a book, and an elderly gentleman who seemed to be waiting upon the others rather than sitting with them.

Count Austerlitz rose to his feet at Holmes's greeting and held out his hand before making a swift round of introductions.

"Herr Holmes, Doktor Watson, may I present my wife-to-be, the lady Cecilia Strauss?"

The young woman, dressed in a becoming evening gown of light blue, lowered her book and nodded to us in acknowledgement. It was evident why the count was engaged to this woman for she had a very pleasing figure, her face was pleasant and full of a youthful energy and enthusiasm. And her best feature by far was her hair, a dark shade of gold that seemed to glow and shine in the soft light of the fire, the portion of it that she allowed to hang loose from the intricate knot atop her head hung down over her neck in a cascade that offset perfectly the color of her gown and her delicate pink lips and cheeks.

"Herr Holmes," she said in English, in the quiet, prim tones of a woman who has been brought up to be a lady – I remembered the Count telling us that although not nobility, the lady's father was a very wealthy merchant and had procured the best possible upbringing for his daughter. "I have heard a great deal of you, from the Doktor's stories, and the stories in the newspaper…I am greatly relieved that you have come."

Holmes smiled politely, completely unaffected by her looks; ever the cold and thinking machine.

"I am glad to be of service," he responded in the brisk, amiable tones he used with most of his clients.

"And her brother, Mr. Hobart Strauss." The Count continued, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the man on the couch, who seemed to have nothing better to occupy his time with than in fiddling with the sleeves of his dinner jacket.

Dislike was very clear on the Count's features as he looked at his future brother-in-law. "He is here as escort to his sister."

The fellow did not bother to do more than glance at us as he pulled out his pocket watch and marked the time. He was fairly built, like his sister, and his frame lacked all the athletic build and effect of a busy lifestyle that the count's had. His hair was a shade darker and, like the rest of his appearance, he appeared to care very little about it.

It was no wonder that the lady had chosen a man of quite a different calibre than the members of her family.

Holmes glanced at me, and I hid a smirk.

My friend turned to the fellow and held out his hand.

"A pleasure, Herr Strauss."

Strauss raised his eyes again and they lingered on Holmes a moment before going to rest on his sister.

"I also have heard of you, Herr Holmes," he said in a bored tone, "for my sister takes great delight in reading your fanciful tales. And she very much believes from those works that you have the power to solve any mystery…I have heard of nothing else from her for some years now."

The cheek of the man! I felt myself colour and shot a glance at my friend, but he did not look the least put out; rather he looked amused and he casually withdrew his hand when it was not accepted.

He turned back to the Count.

"Are Dr. Watson and myself your only other guests then, Count?" Holmes inquired.

"For now, the other holiday guests have gone home as of this morning," the Count replied, and then added, "Save for the boy that you have brought with you."

He was glancing curiously down at Alfie, who was hanging back and trying his best to remain unnoticed behind my legs.

"Yes," I said, and gently but firmly drew him forward as his little round face went red with embarrassment at being noticed.

The Count smiled tolerantly.

"It is indeed a pleasure to see that you have arrived safely."

"_Danke,_" Holmes said, speaking for all of us, and not for the first time I was glad that he and not I was the one to deal with nobility and officials.

"A drink perhaps, to ward off your journey's chill."

"_Danke_, Count," Holmes repeated as the Count waved us to a seat, resumed his own chair and signaled the elderly gentleman who prepared our drinks for us.

I seated myself beside Holmes on a comfortable couch opposite the one where Strauss lounged and Alfie hurried to join me.

But he froze at a sudden gruff rumble that sounded just at the left end of the sofa.

A dog…a very large, red-coated dog, with dark eyes and a dark muzzle, it viewed this small intruder with the tolerant condescension it might use on a puppy that happened to tumble into a heap before it.

Apparently finding the poor lad to be of sufficient interest it wuffed again and rose up on its feet, sniffing curiously as it approached the frozen child.

I must admit that if I were not quite four feet tall, and had spent the entirety of my youth running about London where the dogs of the street were not so friendly, then I would have reacted much in the same way as the lad did.

As it was he let out a high-pitched yelp and practically leapt into my arms, forcing me to either snatch him up, or drop him directly onto a beautifully-inlaid table that stood just in front of us.

I caught him and his small hands clung to my jacket as he looked back down at the large hound.

It looked back at him, blinked, and began to approach a second time, attempting to sniff the boy's new boot.

Alfie snatched his foot back, trying to curl into a smaller ball on my lap and I could do little but hold onto him as his other foot dug into my stomach.

The Count laughed and snapped his fingers, letting off a brisk command in German for the dog to sit.

It glanced at its master and then reluctantly sat, not a few inches from my knee, its eyes still fixed on Alfie. I began to try to pry his death grip off my coat.

"You will have to forgive Ada, Herr Doktor, _Kind,_…she is still young, and very curious. I am afraid I spoil her."

I would have to agree…for the dog looked better kept then most animals I had seen…and perhaps a little overfed. It was indeed an eccentric and wealthy man who would keep indoors as a pet what was obviously meant to be a hunting dog.

"A bloodhound, Count?" Holmes inquired knowledgably, accepting a small glass of brandy from our elderly server.

The Count nodded, accepting his own drink, his eyes shining as he looked his dog over. "Bavarian bloodhound, Herr Holmes, the very best breed, her father was…"

I will not bore my (I am sure grateful) readers with the long description that the Count proceeded to give us of his dog's heritage. Suffice it to say that it was more impressive and better recorded than my own.

Holmes also grew bored of the account rather swiftly, but listened politely until he had drained his glass, then looked pointedly at his watch.

"If you will permit, Count. We are rather exhausted from the journey, and the Doctor and I must be up rather early in the morning to begin our investigation."

"Of course. Mueller will show you to your rooms. If there is anything you need, he can provide it for you. I will see you on the morrow, gentlemen."

Holmes inclined his head and rose to his feet as the elderly manservant approached us.

I moved to follow Holmes but had to pause as Alfie refused to shift, his wide eyes still fixed on the dog that stared back with the canine version of a bemused smirk.

The Count noticed this, thankfully, and snapped his fingers a second time.

Ada glanced at her master and with a sigh, trotted to his side and seated herself beside his chair. Alfie slid cautiously to the floor, though he kept his eyes on the large animal and kept a tight hold on my coat.

We bade polite farewells to our host and his guests and listened to another expression of gratitude and relief from the lady.

"I know that all shall be well now that you are here, Herr Holmes…"

And at long last we were able to leave the room and follow Mueller up into the castle.

The moment the had door closed behind us Alfie let out a sigh of relief and lightened his hold on my coat.

"Cor, Doctor, an' if that t'weren't the biggest dog oi've ever seen…oi thought 'twas goin' to swallow me 'ole."

I smiled at him, for he really had handled it rather well.

"I'm sorry, Alfie, I didn't know it was there. Are you all right?"

The lad drew himself up at once and fixed a nonchalant scowl on his face. "Oi ain't afraid of no mutt loike that, Doctor…just surprised me is all."

I nodded, careful to hide my amusement, for it would not do to damage the lad's already bruised pride.

Holmes had engaged in a conversation with Mueller.

"I am somewhat confused, Mueller. I was under the impression that Lehmann was the Count's butler."

The starched servant did not even blink at this rather invasive question but answered readily in matching English, as though he were accustomed to such things.

"He was taken on to manage some of the more strenuous duties, Herr Holmes, but he has a great deal to learn about Weissberg Castle before he is ready to take my position."

"You have been with the family a long time then?"

"For forty years, Herr Holmes."

Holmes nodded distractedly, filing this information for later use and already onto his next train of thought. We spent the next little while in silence as we traversed the halls to our rooms, which were on the second floor of the massive castle, in the wing above the Count's, according to our guide.

Mueller stopped in front of a large and well-polished oak door.

"This is your room, Herr Holmes."

Holmes smiled, strode in through the open door, and then poked his head out again, giving me one of his impulsive grins.

"Won't keep you, Watson, you must be exhausted, old chap. Do take care of Alfie, will you?"

I was surprised he even remembered the little Irregular, since his mind was no doubt already whirling with thoughts and connections about the case.

Nor was I about to complain regarding his abrupt departure, for I was indeed tired.

"Right, Holmes," I said, attempting and failing to hide a yawn.

He smiled, then his eyes grew sharp with concern. "Is your head all right?"

I nodded wearily, "'S fine, Holmes."

"Splendid. Good night then, old fellow."

And then he was gone, shutting the door in our faces.

I was rather gratified to see Mueller blink at last at my friend's eccentric behavior and Alfie whispered beside me.

"E's like a bleedin' jack-i'-the-box!"

The elderly butler recovered himself quickly.

"Your room is just here, Herr Doktor," he motioned to the room just to the left of Holmes's, "And the _Kind's_ is here." He moved to open a door just across the hall.

Alfie released my coat and his eyes lit up at the sight of the large and comfortably furnished room.

"Cor!" he squeaked and tore across the hall past Mueller, headed straight for the enormous bed.

I smiled and entered my own room to see it furnished much as Holmes's was, with a large bed and several settees around the fireplace in something of a makeshift sitting room. My luggage stood neatly against one wall.

The bed itself looked particularly inviting, as did the warm fire that crackled in the hearth. I took off my coat and slung it over one of the chairs but was suddenly interrupted as Mueller's voice sounded behind me.

_"__Wäre das dann alles für heute, Doktor__?" _

I blinked at the servant, my tired mind trying to process the rapid German. The elderly man smiled apologetically and spoke in English. "Do you require anything else for the night, Doktor?"

"No, thank you, Mueller," I replied with a relieved smile.

"Very good, sir. Breakfast will be served at half-past nine tomorrow, sir."

The man bowed and made his way back down the corridor, and I went across the hall to see if Alfie was ready for bed yet.

"Blimey, oi neva 'ad matching pyjamas before," the lad said excitedly, bouncing on the massive bed.

I chuckled, making sure the fire was well-stoked for the night boded chill – snow was already beginning to fall outside the frosty windows.

"Can oi make a snowman tomorrow, Doctor?"

"I don't see why not," I said, "now stop that bouncing and get ready for bed."

"Aw, Doctor!"

"Alfie, it is well past ten – aren't you sleepy at all?"

"No, not me, Doctor!" the lad replied happily, wiggling his feet in new slippers off the edge of the bed.

I rubbed my head wearily. "Well, I _am_, lad, so you are going to have to go to sleep now. Come on, into the bed."

"But –"

"Alfie, if you refuse to go to bed when I tell you to during our stay here, I shall not let you stay up this late again, do you hear me?"

The boy scowled darkly but obediently climbed between the sheets and I pulled the thick down comforter over him.

"D'yew s'pose the ghosts'll come out tonight, Doctor?" he whispered, casting a glance about nervously.

"Heavens, no, Alfie," I laughed, dimming the gas, "there are no such things as ghosts, you know that."

"Mm, oi'm not so sure, Doctor," the lad replied seriously, his green eyes wide and earnest, "Mr. Lachlan tol' me about this ship 'e was on, an' the figgur'ead came ta life one noight, an' -"

"Alfie," I said warningly, making a mental note to kill the midshipman for putting such ideas into a gullible little mind, "you are going to sleep right now."

"But, Doctor, oi ain' a bit sleepy!"

I sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. Exasperated as I was, I truly could not blame the boy for his excitement, for I knew Holmes himself was as far from sleep as he could be and the boy had even twice that energy.

"Look, if I tell you a story, will you go to sleep for me?" I asked, patting the lad's arm.

The child's eyes grew wide with even more excitement, if that were possible.

"Cor, yes, Doctor!"

"Very well. What would you like to hear?"

"Tell me 'bout when yew met Mr. Lachlan, Doctor?"

I frowned, for parts of that tale were really not fit for children's bedtime stories. I still shuddered thinking about the long and nearly deadly case.

"Alfie, that is not a sleepy, relaxing story," I began, but the lad looked so pleadingly at me that I sighed in acquiescence. The boy no doubt had seen and heard far worse in his rough young life, at any rate.

I began to detail the story behind the Dutch steamship _Friesland_ – of our introduction to the man we would later become such good friends with…of Holmes's being attacked on the docks and Lachlan's rescue of him, thereby earning my complete trust…of both his and the sailor's subsequent illnesses…of our boarding the _Friesland_, knowing a deranged scientist was aboard with plans to see the boat never reached port with the passengers and crew intact…of Smith's final capture but his one last stroke of genius in infecting me with one of the newer diseases...of Holmes's ensuing battle to find the cure, and Lachlan's final struggle with Smith resulting in the man's death at long last.

Alfie's eyes grew bigger and rounder as the story progressed, but I scarcely noticed, so caught up was I in the drama unfolding in my memory…those horrible three days I spent battling Smith's illness while Holmes and Lachlan worked around the clock to save me were still engrained in my mind with a clarity that not even the events of Reichenbach had achieved.

Even Holmes has admitted that I have a bit of a knack for vivid story-telling, and I supposed judging by the lad's rapt attention that it was true, for as I detailed the events of those last three days (omitting the more personal details, of course), Alfie's eyes never left my face, and his little features became pinched with worry.

"But Mr. 'Olmes foun' the stuff ta make yew better?" he asked softly.

"That he did," I said with a smile, "and he went without sleep for three days to do it, too."

"Blimey!"

"Indeed. And now, young man, it is time for little boys to be asleep," I said quietly, pulling up the coverlet to the lad's chin.

"Ta for th' story, Doctor," he said with a small grin, snuggling down under the warm blankets.

The boy's eyelids were already drooping as I turned the gas off and bent over him.

"'S no wonder, Doctor," he murmured sleepily as I did so.

"No wonder what, Alfie?" I asked gently.

"'S no wonder Mr. 'Olmes cares so much 'bout yew – yer just a ruddy wond'rf'l chap, yew know tha'?" the child murmured, already half-asleep, and a moment later his eyes closed and he began to snore softly.

It was rather a good thing that the boy was asleep, for it would have been a few minutes after that before I could find my voice.

* * *

**Many, many thanks to Velvet Green, who has been kind enough to be a real German translator for us instead of those dubious online ones. Thank you so much, VG!**


	9. Where'er We Tread

_Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground._

_-Lord Byron_

* * *

_**Watson**_

"Doctor, can oi go outside an' play i' th' snow?"

"No, you're staying right here with us," I said wearily, rubbing my eyes.

Holmes took two seconds to glare at Alfie, three to glance at me, and then went straight back to the German newspapers Lehmann had brought back from town that morning before breakfast.

"But Doctor!" the lad's voice turned more into a whine than a voice, "it _snowed_ las' night!"

"And it probably will for every night hereafter," I said in exasperation.

"But Doctor!"

"Fine, then go – but stay in sight of these windows, mind," I finally sighed, wishing for nothing more than a semi-quiet morning smoke.

Alfie whooped, snatching his mittens and bolting for the door, thoroughly horrifying Lehmann, who in passing with a load of clean linen was giving us both scandalous looks as if to ask why two bachelours had brought a ten-year-old boy along on a case like this.

I settled back with a slight sigh, uncapping my new Waterman pen and beginning to try to recall from memory the information that was lying flattened beneath that train.

"I told you we'd regret keeping the boy with us."

"I'm not regretting it, Holmes, I'm just tired – and it is not as if you were helping matters anyhow, letting him have coffee with his breakfast!" I said in annoyance, shooting him a glare which he characteristically ignored, merely grinning infuriatingly and going back to his paper.

"How can you be tired, you slept until nearly nine this morning and we retired far earlier than usual. I am perfectly fresh this morning."

"You are not trying to balance your normal duties of chronicling and tolerating an annoying detective with babysitting a hyperactive child and getting thrown under a locomotive's wheels – that's rather a bit more stressful than the normal, Holmes," I said dryly, scribbling a few notes in a new journal.

He had scowled at my calling him annoying but the look changed to uncomfortable concern at the latter part of my reply.

"Still got a headache, then?"

"From the near-death experience, your sarcasm, or Alfie?"

"Oh, do stow it, Watson."

I snorted. "Ten hours in Lachlan's company, and you're picking up nautical jargon?"

Holmes grinned, shutting the papers with a rustle of pages and offering them to me. As deciphering the German was not my idea of a relaxing morning, I declined, and he stood and stretched himself, glancing out the window at the little boy who was yelling and throwing snowballs down in the courtyard below.

"You know, I'll wager he hasn't seen that much snow ever in his lifetime, growing up in London like that," he said thoughtfully, "sometimes I've thought about writing a monograph on the subject of city culture versus country, Watson, and its relation in children especially. Why do children raised in the city love the country, and why –"

"Holmes." At my tone, he glanced up at me. "I really could not care less about your monographs."

"Well they are a sight better reading than your florid romanticisms."

"Which is why you've had all of six works published and I've had over four times that, eh?"

Holmes scowled at me, stamping off in rather a huff. I grinned at his retreating back, throwing a glance out the window to make sure Alfie was behaving (as much as an energetic little urchin like that could be, anyway) before following him from the sitting room that adjoined his bedroom and down the stairs.

"What are you doing?"

"I want a floor plan of this place, Watson," he called over his shoulder, and I quickened my pace to match his overly long legs, "If we are to be chased all over by ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night, then I should like to be able to flee without running into a dead end."

"Honestly, Holmes, you really should lay off the combination of six cups of coffee and a dozen pipes before breakfast," I said exasperatedly, "you get positively garrulous when you're in a decent mood after such a combination!"

"What? Stop mumbling, Watson, I can't understand you," he said distractedly, rounding the corner in the winding staircase. I sighed, for the thing was truly hopeless.

When we reached the bottom, we made our way through the lavishly decorated halls until we came to the Count's main study, where we had met the man the night before and where he had told us after breakfast he would be once he had concluded business for the day with Lehmann. As Lehmann was doing his duties upstairs, it took no great deduction to see that was where Holmes was now headed.

My friend knocked lightly on the door and received permission to enter, I close on his heels. The Count was sitting at his desk, writing in a ledger.

"Yes, what is it, Mr. Holmes?"

"I should like to have a copy of the floor plans of this castle, Count, complete with measurements of the rooms, if you please."

"May I inquire why?" the man asked, going to a large file cabinet and fishing through several files.

"If the legend is truly coming to life, then I have no doubt that the person or persons doing the 'haunting', for lack of a better word, have a thorough knowledge of the layout. One thing I despise about an investigation is being at a disadvantage to the criminal," Holmes replied calmly.

"I see no harm in giving you a copy, I suppose. Here," the man handed a large roll of paper to Holmes as well as several loose sheets.

"Thank you, Count. And I should like to ask you a few questions if I may, to help start the investigation."

"Certainly, I can give you a quarter of an hour before I am to head to town on business," the nobleman said courteously, sitting back in his chair and waving us to two others.

"First of all, I should like to question your fiancée at some point – do you wish to be present when I do so?"

The Count frowned before speaking. "Confidentially, gentlemen, I believe Cecilia may be more inclined to talk to strangers – I certainly have been unable to get her to confide in me. If you can do so, I would be much obliged to you."

"Then I shall do so this morning. And now, Count, about the legend. Do you have in one of your book collections a recording of it as well as the instances it supposedly has claimed another victim?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. It is in one of the libraries upstairs. Lehmann can show you where."

"One last thing, Count. This map, does it include any secret passages or rooms, that you know of?"

The Count chuckled. "I am sure the place is riddled with them, Mr. Holmes, but frankly I have never cared enough to locate them. My father, in his childhood, did find several and they are marked – the others, I honestly have no idea. Feel free to look all you like; I have given orders that you are never to be disturbed in your investigation, Holmes."

My friend's eyebrows went ceiling-ward, as this was a rare bit of cooperation from such a nobleman.

The Count gave the upper-class equivalent to an eyeroll before standing, indicating that our time was at an end. "I have nothing to hide, Mr. Holmes, and as such could not care less what you get yourself into."

"Thank you for your consideration just the same, Count."

"Consideration has nothing to do with this," the man said directly, fixing that piercing stare on my friend, "I have employed you to break this legend. Break it. I would be a fool indeed were I to hinder you."

Holmes bowed, a rare gesture of respect (and nearly unheard-of tact) on his part, and we left the Count in his study.

"We had better check on Alfie," I said worriedly, heading for the main entrance to the courtyard.

Holmes was walking along, his nose in the papers the Count had given us, and completely oblivious to all else. In consequence, he nearly ran over the elderly butler, who stumbled back with a hasty apology.

"_Nein_, completely my fault," Holmes said hastily, seeing my disapproving glare, "I was not watching my footing, Mueller."

Just then the door flew open, the wind slamming it against the wall with a crack loud enough to make the three of us jump, and the little Irregular burst into the entryway, dripping snow everywhere and yelping that 'tha' bleedin' dog' was after him before slamming the door.

"Alfie, dust yourself off this minute!" I exclaimed.

"_Entschuldigung,"_ the lad mumbled to Mueller, shaking snow out of his new cap.

_"__Geht schon in Ordnung, Junge,"_ the kindly old man replied, taking the sodden clothing from the child and handing it off to yet another maid who had apparently appeared out of nowhere.

"What're yew doin' now, Doctor?" Alfie asked eagerly, skipping about to look at a display of antique weapons on one of the walls.

I sighed wearily. "Mr. Holmes and I are going to be doing some paperwork, Alfie, so you need to find something to occupy yourself. And that won't get you into trouble. Now come along."

"Oi don' wanna just sit 'round while yew two look a' some bleedin' maps," the boy said dismally.

"All the same, you are not going to be running about unsupervised. Remember you promised to do what I said?" I asked sternly.

The lad's face fell miserably, but he nodded obediently.

"I do beg your pardon, Herr Doktor, but if the _Kind_ would like to walk about my duties with me, I would enjoy the young company," the elderly butler said, offering a kind smile to the boy, who looked at the old man somewhat dubiously.

"I couldn't ask you to –"

"Not at all, Doctor. Come along, Master Alfie. I'm sure you would like to see the towers, would you not?"

"Towers!? Cor, yes!"

Holmes looked up finally as if just waking from a nap – honestly, the man's powers of detachment were simply inhuman.

"_In dem Fall danke ich ihnen vielmals_," he said gratefully to the man, tugging on my arm as if afraid the elderly butler would change his mind.

The man smiled, motioning for our little urchin to follow, and they set off down another hallway.

"Well, Holmes?"

"Game for a little exploration, Watson?"

"By exploration, do you mean this entire castle?!" I asked incredulously.

"Well, of course we shan't be able to see the whole thing this morning – but at least until luncheon. I should like to question the Lady Cecilia after we dine. But we have a good solid four hours until then, Watson!"

He was straining like a hound on a leash, scanning the rolled-up map of the massive place with more eagerness than he had shown so far this trip – how could I begrudge him the case?

"Well, give me the loose papers at least," I said reluctantly, "and get a system so we aren't wandering round aimlessly."

"Really, Watson!" He acted as miffed as a woman when another insults her hairstyle. Honestly, the man could be as vain as –

"Stop dawdling, Watson! The game is –"

"_Don't_ say it, Holmes!" I moaned, following his rapidly disappearing form down a dimly-lit corridor, "you really must find a new pet phrase!"

"What, doesn't your reading public _expect_ me to say it at the start of every investigation?" he asked mischievously, glancing back at me with a grey gaze sparkling with good humour.

"Unfortunately, yes – just as much as they expect my eyes to glaze over and me to say 'Amazing, Holmes', every time you floor a client with your deductions," I shot back at him.

"Personally, I'd prefer your admiration to that sarcasm you seem to be doling out with regularity this morning."

"Admiration must be earned, Holmes."

"What, and I haven't?"

"When the entire sum of your stunning deductions in the sleigh was something to the effect of _'It's dashed cold here, Watson'_?" I asked in amusement.

Holmes's good-natured laughter reverberated and echoed through the deserted hall as we made our way toward the other end of the castle, exploring the less-frequented wings first. I lost track after a long while of the many bedrooms, boudoirs, libraries, and halls, occupying myself with studiously marking them on the map so that we should not retrace our steps.

"Holmes," I began, squinting at the paper I held in the dim light, "this says there's a secret passage connecting this study with the kitchen!"

"And?" he asked, infuriatingly calmly.

"Well aren't you going to test it out?"

"Whatever for?"

"You are so insufferable sometimes."

"Watson, if your innate curiousity must so be satisfied, you could simply say you wish to find the passage instead of beating round the bush like that."

"And hear an hour-long tirade about ridiculous romanticism?"

"True. All right, old chap, where is it supposed to be?" he asked with a tolerant sigh, grinning at my eagerness.

"Behind that bookcase, apparently," I said, showing him the diagram I was holding. He walked over to the case, whipping out his ever-present lens and beginning a close scrutiny.

"The Count's staff certainly is meticulous, there isn't a speck of dust anywhere on the shelf or the books," he remarked. "You know, actually it's rather a good idea to acquaint ourselves with the castle's secrets, Watson, in case we ever have to make an unseen getaway from somewhere."

I thought, but was not sure, that that was a roundabout compliment, but no matter. I joined him at the case, inspecting it. Holmes tried lifting up on each shelf, pushing in on each shelf, and running his hands along the outside and inside searching for a latch.

"Are you certain this is the right case?" he asked, leaning over my shoulder to look at the diagram.

"Yes, this is it – pity there are no directions," I said thoughtfully, glancing over the shelves.

Holmes growled and tried kicking the bottom of the case; naturally achieving nothing besides acquiring a painful foot.

"I suppose we could take all the books off the shelves and could probably find the latch that way…" I said dubiously, not at all thrilled about the idea.

"An excellent idea, Watson!" Holmes said excitedly, snatching a large dictionary and tossing it far too carelessly to the floor.

"Holmes!"

"Come on, Watson, you wanted to see it, did you not?"

"Not at the expense of destroying our client's property! Be careful, those look old!"

Within ten minutes he had turned the area round the bookcase into a replica of the normal state of being of our sitting room…that is to say, an absolute wreck.

And to make matters worse, there was no latch, button, or any other indication of a passage entrance to be found.

"Bravo, Holmes."

"It was your idea!"

"I meant _one shelf at a time_, Holmes, not take all of them off at once!" I retorted, beginning to reshelve the books in something of the order they had been before.

Holmes swore loudly, now very annoyed at being baffled by a bookcase.

"What the devil is the secret?" he growled, whipping out his lens once more and inspecting the case.

"Suppose the catch isn't actually on this set of shelves," I offered, reshelving a collection of medical books, making a mental note to come back later and look at some of the older works.

"In that case, we could search all day and not find it!" he almost snarled in his irritation, beginning to look at the cases on either side of the one I was restocking. "Are you sure you had that diagram right-side up?"

"Really, Holmes!"

He merely frowned at my indignation and continued his scrutiny. "Hah!"

"What have you found?"

"A crack, Watson – this is indeed the door. See?"

I glanced over at the crack. "Yes, but that merely proves I was holding the diagram right-side up. It doesn't help us any."

Holmes sent me a scathing glare. I shrugged, taking the last three books and slamming them into the back end of the top shelf, rather too hard due to my irritation with his rapidly failing mood.

I jumped back with a startled cry of surprise as the entire bookcase creaked and then swung a few inches out from the wall.

"Well, that was melodramatic, Watson."

"Oh, be quiet. You're just jealous that I discovered it and you didn't."

Holmes snorted, throwing his weight backward and pulling the case open to reveal a dark, musty-smelling passage.

"Going in?" I asked eagerly.

The detective's glare softened at the sight of my excitement, and the denial died unspoken into a fond sigh.

"Find a candle first."

* * *

**Again, many thanks to Velvet Green for translating for us, and also to Aragonite for giving us quite a bit of information about the Bavarian weather and culture.**


	10. Ghosts Then Keep Their Distance

_And __ghosts__ then keep their distance; and I know some liberty._

_-Thomas Hardy_

* * *

_There's a small wink to CG's meme here, in case anyone notices._

* * *

_**Holmes**_

"Well that was a capital waste of time."

"No, really?" I replied sarcastically, brushing a cobweb off my clothing with more than my usual irritation. I have never been fond of small dark spaces, and as a result was not in the least thrilled with my friend's apparent fascination for this one.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I sighed, wishing my tone had not been so harsh at the sight of his crestfallen face, "you had no way of knowing the other end had been boarded up since the thing was discovered."

Watson slammed the bookcase back into place with a sigh, extinguishing the candle and replacing it on the mantel.

"All right, I won't ask again, I promise," he said tiredly, picking up the papers we had left on the desk. I frowned, for judging from the way he had been absently touching his scalp for the last hour, his headache of the day previous had not yet totally dissipated.

"We still need to locate them, old chap," I replied, purposefully striding toward the door, "just do restrain your explorative streak, eh?"

That elicited a smile and we moved on to the rest of that wing, discovering two more passages that led heaven knew where; we did not take the time to explore them. We then moved upstairs to the second floor. The uninhabited wing was three corridors away from our own rooms, and so after another two hours of wandering round getting a feel for the layout of the massive place we returned there to erase the signs of our hasty expedition into the bowels of the castle.

I changed from my cobwebby clothing with fair rapidity, lit a cigarette (smiling rather ridiculously at the sight of the familiar silver case), and banged on the door of Watson's room before opening it.

"It's freezing up here," I informed him by way of conversation.

He glanced up from combing his hair – very gingerly, I noticed – and smirked. Confound him, he wasn't even shivering.

"I don't suppose the Count would be offended if you walked around armed with a blanket and shawl. Though I'm surprised you're not warmer, the amount of foul stuff you smoke."

I snorted, considering the shawl idea before deciding it would seem rather ridiculous.

"How's your head?"

"Had to sleep on my side last night," he admitted, gingerly touching the sore area before laying the comb down, "but it's fine. How much time have we before luncheon?"

I glanced at my watch. "Half an hour. Do you suppose we had better locate that urchin?"

"Do we have to?"

I laughed, handing him his jacket on my way out the door.

"Either that, or you may find yourself doctoring an elderly patient for cardiac arrest," I called back, and heard a moan of dismay before his footsteps hurrying after mine. I slowed a bit for him to catch up.

"What are we going to do with that child, Holmes? He has no toys or anything to occupy his attention –"

"Watson, honestly, do you think the lad had toys in London?"

"No, but there he had a trade and companions his own age," he replied thoughtfully, "do you suppose I should give him some work to do?"

I considered. "Might not be a bad idea, my dear fellow. He can read, I know that, you might have him read some of the books in one of the libraries. Practice his German or something, I don't know. I'm a detective, not a governess!"

He merely laughed, a pleasing sound to me after a rather unproductive morning. This was the stage of investigation that I absolutely despised – when there was no physical evidence to be had as of yet and I had to content myself with becoming acquainted with people and situations. I needed material to work with before I started haunting people myself.

After getting directions from a pert little maid in a starched uniform, we located Alfie and Mueller in what appeared to be an oversized storage room, stocked with linens and towels and various other household implements. I felt my face crease in a smile, as it appeared that the elderly butler had inveigled the lad into assisting him in some kind of inventory.

_"__Wie viele blaue Handtücher?"_

_"Zweiundzwanzig, Herr Müller,"_ Alfie replied to the elderly man's question, standing on tiptoe to count a bunch of towels.

"Alfie?" I asked, knocking on the doorframe.

Mueller, perfect trained servant he was, hastily straightened up with a stiff bow, the gentle smile leaving his face and reverting to a polite questioning glance.

"Time for luncheon, Alfie," Watson said with a smile.

"Awww, Doctor!"

I grinned, turning to the attentive butler. _"Danke, dass sie auf den Jungen achtgegeben haben, Müller."_

I saw Watson nudge the boy expectantly.

_"Vielen Dank, dass ich sie heute morgen begleiten und ihnen helfen durfte."_ The lad spun off a string of German.

The elderly man smiled, turning his attention back to us. "Gentlemen, Weissberg Castle has not many attractions for _Kinder_. I should be more than happy to take the lad off your hands if you should so wish it at any time."

I nearly laughed aloud at the look of unmitigated relief that spread over Watson's tired face. "_Danke,_ Mueller. We will probably take you up on that," he said with a wide smile.

"Should oi be insulted by tha', Mr. 'Olmes?" Alfie whispered.

I chuckled, pushing the lad out the door and nodding to the old butler, who remained stiffly at attention until we had left eyesight.

Luncheon was a quiet affair, as the Count had gone to town with Keller and the conversation was slightly strained due to the presence of that insufferable brother of the lady's, and also his impertinence in placing himself beside me of all people.

Watson has said that I am not overly endowed with tact, and what little I do have flees me in the face of such an odious dolt as that man was. I yawned outright at one point in Strauss's arrogant conversation, receiving a stern kick under the table from Watson, who was across from me, and a barely repressed snicker from the lad sitting beside my friend, putting far too much marmalade on his scone than was healthy.

Watson evidently did not see or was ignoring this, and I shuddered to think of poor Mueller having to deal with a more hyperactive child than he had to this morning.

"Well, Holmes?" the man beside me demanded rudely in English, and I realised he must have asked me something that I totally had no recollection of hearing.

"Have the kindness to use my prefix when you address me, sir," I said in perfect German, "and I am afraid I did not hear your question."

The fellow bristled. "I _said_," he replied in obvious annoyance, "have you discovered anything pertaining to this absurd legend by now?"

"Considering the fact that I have only been on the premises for twelve hours, six of those being spent in sleep, not anything concrete as of yet," I said stiffly, the only thing keeping me from making a rather satisfyingly sarcastic remark being Watson's warning gaze across the table.

I glanced down at the lady, who was seated across from her brother and beside Watson at this massive table, of which we only occupied one end, looking rather bored with the conversation. She was nearly finished, and as my patience was as well, I addressed her with rather more tact than I had her insolent brother.

"Lady Cecilia, might I have a few moments of your time after we are finished here?"

The lady started, her eyes flashing up to meet mine, and once again I saw that oddly lurking fear I wondered if I had perceived the night before, so unusual in an otherwise strong character. But in an instant the haunted look was gone, and the calm noble manner returned.

"Certainly, Herr Holmes."

"Cecilia, I thought we were going riding this afternoon?" brother demanded petulantly, and I thanked heaven above for Mycroft as he spoke. Annoying, my brother could be – but not loathsome. Most of the time, at any rate.

"After I speak with Herr Holmes, Hobart," the lady replied firmly, with a look that oddly enough silenced the man.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Alfie bump Watson's water glass upon reaching for the jam-pot, and my friend hastily grabbed it before it spilled everywhere. He and I both sent the lad a look that made him squirm and shrink down in the seat. Children, honestly. I believe we were both very glad when the meal had ended and we had deposited Alfie in his room with strict instructions to take a nap or at least to keep himself occupied for an hour while we interviewed the lady.

Lady Cecilia was cooperative but completely unhelpful. She supposedly had been far too frightened to notice anything about the apparitions the times she had seen the ghostly woman, and she knew of no one who would want to break the marriage off for any reason at all.

She was indeed frightened, I could see that – but such a strong-willed woman to be frightened of a legend? It sat ill with me, for it seemed so out-of-place with her character. I said as much to Watson as we resumed our tour of the castle, heading toward the tower stairs where the girl in the legend had supposedly fallen to her death.

"Women are fickle, Holmes – they can be perfectly calm at the sight of blood and then faint at a mere noise," he told me.

"I must concede to your superiour experience there, Watson."

He scowled good-naturedly at my teasing (though I was actually serious) and we continued the rest of that afternoon on our tour before meeting the household once again for a late dinner that was scarcely more entertaining or informative than the luncheon had been.

Watson was absolutely exhausted by the time we retired – I had not realised just how far I had dragged him around until I calculated the distance on his excellent diagrams – and so I put Alfie to bed this time, shoving my friend gently into his room on my way with a stern admonishment to go straight to sleep.

"Aren' yew gonna tell me a story, Mr. 'Olmes?" Alfie asked pleadingly as I turned down the gas and made sure the fire was sufficiently stoked for the night.

"A what?"

"A story, the Doctor tol' me a story las' night."

"Erm, Alfie. Most of the stories I know are not ones little boys should be hearing before they go to sleep," I said uncomfortably.

"Please, Mr. 'Olmes? Oi don' wanna go ta sleep yet!"

Confound it, Watson! A _bedtime story_??

I have never been a very good storyteller, as the Doctor has pointed out on more than one occasion – and I doubted that Alfie would be very interested in a criminology lecture.

I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. "Now look here, young man –"

"_Pleeeease_, Mr. 'Olmes?"

Why the deuce did children have such puppy-like eyes?

I sighed wearily, for I was tired as well. "What about, Alfie?"

The lad smiled happily. "Tell me 'ow yew an' the Doctor first met, Mr. 'Olmes?"

This time I smiled as well, for that was a tale I could remember, and with more pleasure than the normal fairy stories children asked for at bedtime.

"Then you must go straight to sleep, hear?"

The lad nodded, burrowing down into the covers.

"Well, I was working in the chemistry laboratory at St. Bart's one morning in 1881, Alfie, when this chap named Stamford came in looking for me, and toting along with him a man I could deduce immediately was an army doctor, recently back from Afghanistan…"

"'Ow old were yew then, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"You're supposed to be getting sleepy," I admonished, scowling at the interruption.

"Sorry."

"Twenty-six," I replied softly – it sounded so positively young now! Fourteen years ago, it had been.

I shook my head and continued, shaking away the sense of nostalgia. Alfie was asleep before I had reached the part about actually moving into Baker Street, and I retreated into the corridor, still thinking about what I had just been telling the boy.

On impulse, I peeked into Watson's room to ensure he was indeed sleeping, which he was, again on his side to avoid the bruise on the back of his head. He apparently had literally fallen into bed with exhaustion, for the gas was still fully lit and the bedclothes tangled up round his legs – had I not checked on him he no doubt would be freezing by midnight. I rectified both the blankets and the gas, and he never stirred a muscle, so deep was his tired slumber.

Then, having checked on my two charges, I finally felt justified in turning in myself, hoping for a more eventful day tomorrow.

Little did I know just how _un_eventful that day would be. _And_ the next.

_**Watson**_

There was a great crashing noise from the neighboring room and I flinched, sending a large ink scrawl across my new notebook. The crash was soon followed by a string of colourful curses that I would not see fit to recreate for my readers.

I sighed and began to blot out the still-running ink, wishing for all the world that Alfie's fear of ghosts had indeed been proven true. At least then Holmes would have something to occupy his time.

For two days after our interview with Lady Cecilia we had done everything from interviewing the few servants who claimed to have seen the apparitions to exploring the grounds and the castle from top to bottom.

And the only thing we had gained from our efforts were several more secret passages that held all the excitement of abandoned broom cupboards.

Alfie had swiftly grown bored with following Mueller about, and was now continually sneaking away to explore the castle on his own, more often than not getting lost or sticking his freckled nose into places it shouldn't go.

And then there was the dog, Ada, which seemed to have developed a fascination for the boy, so that when he was not getting into trouble he was trying to hide behind my legs.

I was therefore stuck with two very childish individuals with short attention spans, who were both bored out of their heads.

I had a difficult time deciding which of them was more of a bother.

There was little to do other than offer what distraction I could, while Holmes stalked about the castle and muttered about playing an idle bodyguard to a female with an overactive imagination.

I almost wished that an apparition would appear at the end of my bed, if only it would give the man something to investigate!

The Count did not at all seem bothered by a lack of progress since the frequency of the apparitions had ceased. Indeed, he seemed quite contented that our presence was enough to dissuade the creator of the apparitions and I had no doubt he would prefer that we stayed until the wedding itself if that meant an end to them.

This philosophy only drove Holmes into a deeper melancholy.

"Watson!"

I sighed, set down my new pen and rose to my feet, going swiftly to Holmes's room.

I flinched at once as I took in the state of it. It seemed that Holmes's mess-making was impulsive, and that no matter where he went clutter would follow. I had not even realized that there _were_ that many papers in the room.

"Yes, Holmes?"

My friend whipped round, his face irate, thinner than usual, (meaning that he had not been eating), and he pointed towards the table where it seemed he had set up his diagrams and maps of the castle.

Rather they _had_ been diagrams and maps, before Alfie and the dog had gotten into them.

"Doctor, 'elp!" the lad squeaked from his position atop the very middle of the table, whereupon the dog was preparing to pounce.

I hastened to him, for he was honestly worried by the great beast. I seized hold of Ada's collar despite her struggles and led the dog from the room before closing the door on its face.

I ignored and even derived a little pleasure from the dejected whine that came from behind the door.

Alfie hurriedly leapt down from the table and made certain that one of the couches was between Holmes and himself as the irate detective stalked over to his ruined diagrams.

I sighed. "I am sorry, old fellow."

He raised his head, his face set in a scowl. "So am I, Watson, sorry that I ever took this blasted case!"

I seated myself on the couch that served as Alfie's shield.

"Do you think that Lady Cecilia did imagine the apparitions?"

Holmes shook his head, shifting the papers into some semblance of order.

"No, Watson, I do not, from what I know of the woman she is level-headed, as are most of the servants who also witnessed the apparition. What frustrates me is not a lack of a mystery but lack of any substantial evidence. There are no leads, Watson! I need data! Without it I am powerless…my time would have been better spent in Baker Street!"

"Do you think perhaps that it was just a hoax…that the culprit has given up?"

He snorted and looked up at me again.

"Come now, Watson…a prank that elaborate? No, no, he had some purpose in mind…and I cannot believe that he would give it up so easily."

I sighed, "Should we perhaps go back to England? If we are of no use here -"

Again Holmes shook his head.

"It is possible, Watson, that the culprit ceased his activities because we have arrived and that he is waiting for us to do just that so that he can resume them. And besides I am not in the habit of abandoning a case."

This was indeed a maxim of Holmes's, and rare indeed was the occasion when he would abandon any question that he took up. It was a noble ideal, but looking at him now, at how low and limp he had become, I almost _wished_ he would abandon it in upon this occasion.

Well, if he was determined to stick it out then the least I could do was to endeavor to keep him in good spirits.

"Well, we shall do very little good brooding up here, Holmes," I said, getting to my feet and picking up his jacket to toss to him.

He caught it reflexively and looked up quizzically at me, his face lacking any enthusiasm.

"It is just about time for luncheon, and you have not been eating."

He turned away letting out an agitated sigh. "Watson…"

"No Holmes, I will not allow your health to deteriorate merely because you are in a black mood. Come along."

He glared at me and I scowled back. Alfie stared at one to the other of us.

At long last, Holmes sighed and got to his feet, pulling on his jacket laboriously.

I smiled and went to the door, drawing Alfie with me.

"But if that fellow Strauss is there…"

I groaned. "Oh heaven, I hope not. He is an insufferable..."

"…Git?" Alfie supplied helpfully. I was gratified to hear Holmes laugh.

For once Strauss was not at lunch and we passed a rather pleasant thirty minutes with Lady Cecilia, and the Count for the five minutes during which he deigned to be there.

It was just during this moment when things were beginning to look up that Mueller appeared with a telegram on a tray, which he passed to Holmes. My friend took it absently, seemingly without thought as to who should be sending him messages here. He tore it open, scanned it in his rapid manner…and then the color drained from his face.

A chill ran down my spine at his expression. "Holmes?"

Holmes looked at me.

"Curse me for my desire for trouble, Watson. One should indeed be careful what he wishes for."

"Whatever is it?"

Holmes's mouth was tight and grim as he passed me the telegram. "It's - it's Lachlan."

I seized the telegram as a second wave of terror spread through me.

Lachlan? What on earth could have happened?

I scanned the yellow paper, and felt my heart stop as I took in the words. It was not from Lachlan at all...but from Renie Haight.

TROUBLE IN VIENNA STOP LACHLAN GREVIOUSLY INJURED STOP AM IN NEED OF ASSISTANCE STOP CAN YOU FIND TIME TO COME STOP PLEASE RESPOND AT ONCE AS DANGER IS STILL IMMINENT STOP

HAIGHT

* * *

**-co-authors duck- **

**Sorry, sorry...had to do it, you know! I mean, don't you _expect_ the odd cliffhanger here and there in one of our stories??**


	11. Vanishing Ghosts

_Already the dandelions are changed into vanishing __ghosts__._

_Celia Thaxter (1835–1894)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

The count looked up from the telegram that I had placed in his hand, his face quizzical.

"You wish to leave?"

"Only for a short time," I said. "We would return with them as swiftly as possible, and any expense at their staying here is easily deductible from my fee. Count, it is most urgent that we answer our friend's distress."

The man hesitated, obviously annoyed at this interruption in his plans on behalf of strangers he had never even heard about.

"Surely they can go to the authorities in Vienna…if they wish contacts then I can…"

"Count Austerlitz." Watson interrupted, startling both the Count and myself. For my friend to interrupt was unusual in and of itself…for him to interrupt a client, and a nobleman at that, was unheard of.

"This is not a trivial matter, Count. I – we – owe our lives to these men. And were our roles reversed, they would drop all to come to our aid."

The Count gave Watson his full attention and I kept silent, understanding from the determined glint in my friend's eye that he was bound to say his mind. Probably better that way…as he was far better at conveying the urgency and loyalty that stood behind the matter.

"I have retained your services," the Count said softly, though there was an underlying tension to his voice.

"And as a client you do have the right to compel us to either stay or drop the case," Watson replied. "But as a doctor, as a gentleman, and as a friend of these men, I beg of you to not drive us to such extreme measures. Count, you have seen for yourself that the apparitions have ceased since our arrival – surely a day or two of absence is not going to make much of a difference?"

"Doctor, I have never even met these men, and they can surely find someone else other than someone in my employ to care for them," the Count remained obstinate.

I saw Watson's gaze flit to the lady sitting at the Count's elbow, and to my surprise I saw sympathy in her expression.

"Count," Watson tried again, "Holmes has already offered to deduct the time from his fee. At least allow me to go, surely you can spare one of us?"

Never in a million years would I allow him to go on such an emotionally disturbing journey alone – not to mention the fact that someone had already tried to push him under a train – but I kept my mouth shut now for the sake of argument.

I only then became aware that Alfie had picked up the telegram, read it, and was now looking up at Watson, his little green eyes welling up with tears.

"Doctor, is Mr. Lachlan gonna be oll roight?" he pleaded, his lower lip trembling.

I saw Watson's face tense with suppressed worry. "I – I don't know, Alfie," he said unsteadily.

"Can't yew 'elp 'im, Doctor?"

"Alfie, hush," I said, seeing that the lad was probably not going to help matters. But he had caught the Lady Cecilia's attention, and her eyes grew soft with sympathy.

"_Mein Schatz_, the ghosts have, as Herr Doktor Watson has said, made themselves scarce since their arrival," the lady said softly, "surely it would not be any great trouble to allow them a few days off from the case?"

The count glanced at her in some surprise. "It is for you I have engaged them, Cecilia."

"I know. And things have been much better since they arrived. But now their friends are in trouble, you must let them go," she said, and I was surprised at even hearing that much from her, for normally the lady was quiet and reserved, even a bit aloof.

When the nobleman hesitated, Watson leaned forward earnestly. "Count, less than a year ago the man who is mentioned here wounded saved both my life and Holmes's in a rather dangerous case. We owe those men a debt, and a gentleman always pays his debts. I give you my word, the case will not suffer because of our absence, and we will make all haste to return – but we must do this, it is our duty."

Alfie was crying outright by this time, earning an uneasy glance from the Count but a sad sympathetic one from the lady. Watson's kind face almost crumpled, but he took a deep breath and pulled himself back under a tight rein, patting the lad's shoulder comfortingly.

"_Mein Schatz,_ please, I shall be fine," the lady said pleadingly.

The Count still looked rather put-out – not that I could blame him much – but he sighed and glanced at me.

"Very well, Holmes. And bring them back with you instead of staying away because of them, I do need you back here as quickly as possible."

Watson's face took on a bit of colour at last, and he beat me to a fervent thank-you.

"Lehmann!" the Count called over his shoulder, and the stiff butler stepped into the room at attention.

"Call Keller and have him ready the sleigh. And Holmes, as soon as this friend of yours is well enough to travel, I mean it – back here at once. I did not engage you to be sightseeing in Vienna."

I felt my ears flush slightly but bit back a rude reply for the sake of tact between employee and employer. "Of course, Count."

"I shall tell Lehmann to have rooms prepared for your friends," the man went on with a slightly exasperated sigh, "and telegraph me the time of your arrival."

Watson nodded, folding his napkin and no doubt wishing to be on our way as soon as possible.

From behind me, I felt Mueller step up and bow politely to the Count. "If I might be so bold, sir, I do believe you are making the correct choice – this sounds quite serious."

Watson's eyebrows went toward his hairline, but the man's boldness did not surprise me – the elderly man seemed to be regarded more by the Count as a grandfather than as a servant; no doubt because of the man's long standing in the family.

"And, Herr Doktor, with your permission, sir," Mueller glanced back to the Count for approval before continuing, "I should be more than happy to keep the _Kind_ with me while you and Herr Holmes make the journey."

"I couldn't possibly ask you to do that, Mueller," Watson began, but the elderly man smiled.

"Mueller, you have enough duties as it is," the Count began warningly.

"And the _Kind_ can assist me in them. At any rate, from the sound of this, it is not something a young child should be seeing or hearing," Mueller said sternly, and I nearly laughed to see the Count shrink in his chair slightly at the older man's disapproving tone.

"Very well," he sighed, glancing at Watson and me.

"Alfie, you must behave for Mueller," Watson said sternly.

The lad sniffled, then nodded. Proof of how distrait he was over our friends was evident in the fact that he did not fight us on the idea of remaining behind. He threw me one pleading glance and then allowed himself to be led off by the kindly servant.

I glanced at Watson, and he swallowed hard before rising from the table and striding from the room. I bade the Count and the others goodbye before hurrying after him, catching up with him in the hall outside our rooms.

"Watson."

"What."

I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently. "It'll be all right, old chap."

He smiled faintly in gratitude, but his eyes remained haunted with worry. "I certainly hope you are correct, Holmes."

_**Watson**_

I was at last able to step down off the train in the Vienna station that evening and I peered about at the few people also descending in that very gloomy hour. Dark clouds hovering over the sky seemed to cast a luminous grey over everything and everyone, and I turned my collar up against the chilly wind and swirling grey snow.

Holmes stepped down behind me and placed a reassuring hand briefly on my shoulder.

"No use looking for him here, Watson," he said, meaning Renie, for we had sent the lad a telegram just before we left, assuring him of our intention to join them as soon as possible. "I doubt that he's left Lachlan's side this whole time."

"He could have sent more in the telegram," I said softly, holding tightly to my black medical kit, and wishing to heaven that I did not have reason to bring it with me.

"It seems they both have a knack for cryptic messages…my word, it is colder here than in that blasted castle. What is the German for _Cab_, Watson?"

That made me laugh a little (which no doubt was his intent, as I knew full well his German was more than passable), and I went with him to fetch a cab that would take us swiftly towards their hotel which, thankfully, had been printed on the telegram we had received.

I had never been in Vienna before, and on any other occasion I would have enjoyed watching the sights and describing them in my own words in my mind, anticipating recording my travels in my journal…but now all I could do was stare impatiently at them out our window, hoping them to pass by quicker.

I did not even realise my fingers were drumming nervously on the handle of my bag until Holmes's gloved fingers suddenly closed over them and stilled them.

"Watson, it will be all right. You are not going to do either Lachlan, Haight, or yourself any good if you work yourself up over a lack of details," he said calmly, fixing me with one of those partially hypnotic looks that he invariably used to calm distrait clients with.

I swallowed, for he was right. This was no place to become overly emotional or jumpy. I nodded and forced a small smile to my face, and he withdrew his hand with a returning smile.

But the instant his face turned away from me his brow furrowed deeply and he stared out at the swirling snow with a pained frown.

It was, thankfully, not too long a drive and within a short while our cab stopped in front of the small but respectable hostel. I sprang out at once and headed for the door while Holmes paid our driver, and then we both blew inside with a whirlwind of white flakes.

I skirted the tables of diners and went at once to a fastidiously dressed man who stood at the front desk.

"_Guten Abend._ I am meeting a friend here - do you have a Mr. William Lachlan registered?"

The clerk smiled amiably and flicked open his registry. He flipped through it for a few moments, and then frowned and looked up.

"_Das tut mir leid der Herr,_ but there is no gentleman under that name."

Anxiety rose burning in my chest. "Renie Haight, then?"

Again the clerk searched and again he shook his head in the negative.

I repressed an oath and turned anxiously to Holmes. "Is it possible that they didn't even…"

Holmes waved me to silence with a reassuring glance and approached the clerk himself, his face set in a pleasantly bland smile.

"_Guten Abend,_ my friend and I are trying find some business associates…we know that they are registered here but we're afraid we do not know what names they are registered under. You understand, secrecy in business ventures and all that, I am sure."

The clerk looked a little irked now with all the pestering but so amiable was Holmes's manner and speech that he smiled a bit wearily and said, "that is not an unusual occurrence, _mein Herr_…what else can you tell me about them?"

"They are American. One of them, a small fellow, is very talkative…in fact it is likely that he did all the talking when they checked in."

The clerk thought for a moment and then his face cleared.

"I believe I know whom you mean, _mein Herr_…was not this man accompanied by a tall blond gentleman…with blue eyes?"

Holmes smiled and slapped the desk lightly in triumph, "That would be the ones…you have an excellent memory, sir."

The clerk smiled at this compliment. "In honesty, _mein Herr_, I could not help but remember them…for though the young gentleman seemed sober enough his associate was intoxicated, he was not even able to stand on his own. It seems he found our fare to be too much for him."

The fellow's voice was amused as though this was some private joke that we should share in, but at his words I felt my heart give another jump before falling roughly into my stomach.

They were here, and they were alive…but what in heaven's name had happened to them!?

A muscle in Holmes's jaw twitched, betraying the tension that lay beneath his façade of calmness and amiability.

But he dug into his pocket and laid a couple of coins on the desk with an engaging smile.

"You have been a great help, sir. Can you tell us where to find our friends? So that we can make sure he refrains from trying any more of your excellent fare?"

Again the registry was flipped open.

"Your friends are in rooms 54 and 56, Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson of Chic-"

"Chicago, Illinois, United States – yes, that is they," Holmes interrupted with another smile. "_Vielen Dank."_

The clerk nodded and Holmes turned towards the lift, pulling me with him.

"Smith and Wesson?" I asked, "Where in heaven's name…?"

Holmes gave a little grin. "Have you heard the saying, Watson, 'Let Smith and Wesson do the talking'?"

"No."

"Very popular slogan for a gun manufacturer in the United States, and you know how fond our colonial cousins are of settling disputes with pellet and powder…it seems that Mr. Haight has a creative imagination to rival your own."

"At any other time I would find this amusing Holmes…but…"

My friend sobered, and we entered the lift.

"Certainly, Watson." He gave my shoulder a brief squeeze. "I'm sure he'll be all right, old fellow…especially now that you are here. I am afraid I share our midshipman's dislike for physicians, but I believe we've both made one exception to that rule."

I nodded and tried to relax, too anxious to voice my own opinions on the subject. The two-hour sleigh ride and the five-hour train with a delay at one station after that had strained my nerves almost to the breaking point. I was dying to find them and to help, to settle the horrible gnawing in my stomach.

We reached the floor and Holmes wasted no time in striding rapidly down the hall towards the rooms. To my surprise he passed over 54 completely and knocked softly on 56.

I opened my mouth to query and Holmes answered me before I even voiced my question.

"That is one reason for the second room, Watson. Mr. Haight is no imbecile. If someone did manage did to track them here then they would likely try the nearest room first, possibly alerting our friends to danger."

I nodded, then froze as the door stealthily opened a crack and there was a very familiar metallic click.

"Yes?" asked a by-now familiar American voice, tight with tension.

I breathed out in relief, and Holmes smiled slightly.

"I appreciate that you are a fellow dramatist of Watson's, Mr. Haight…but I would far rather talk to yourself than to Mr. Wesson if it's all the same to you."

There was a very brief moment of silence, then a short-lived American oath and the door was opened to reveal a pale, disheveled Renie Haight, his revolver clutched in his hand, and looking as if he had not slept in several days, though it could not have been more than two.

"Thank God," he breathed. "It's about time you two got here."

"Where is he?" I asked, uncaring of how uneven my voice was.

Renie widened the door to admit us. "Inside…Doctor, he's…I didn't know what…"

We entered the modest room, which held a wardrobe, a table and chairs, and beneath the windows a comfortable-looking bed.

It was the figure lying motionless upon the bed that drew my attention however.

"Lachlan!"

My readers who have read the adventure titled_ Vows Made in Storms_ and are already familiar with Lachlan, know that he always struck me as a very able and robust figure, hardened by years at sea and with a constitution that rivaled that of Holmes himself – it seemed that few things could affect him.

You will have some idea then of the grief that reached me when I took in how lifeless and frail he seemed, lost among the covers of the bed, his pallor white enough to rival the sheets which lay twisted about him.

I hurriedly approached the bed, setting down my bag on the small table that lay beside it. I took hold of his wrist, which was clammy and covered in sweat.

Haight hovered anxiously behind me, his breathing heavy and worried. "I didn't know what to do, Doctor, I tried my best but…"

"I am sure you did." Holmes stood beside him, offering comfort from his steadiness and calm exterior, though I could tell by his manner and the quality of his usual sharp eyes that he was as worried as the reporter. "What happened?"

I was examining my friend by this time. His pulse was very shallow and rather infrequent, his breathing was also disturbingly low and quick, he seemed to be covered in a slight sheen of sweat, his face was lax and unresponsive though his brow remained furrowed.

"We were coming back from inquiring after a contact, it was late and we were headed back to the hotel for dinner…"

Renie sank down into the chair beside the bed, the one he had probably been occupying all night, and he laid his head wearily in his hands.

"It happened before either of us could react…Lachlan was closer to the street, I didn't see what happened…but he fell and th-there was a cab…"

I looked up in shock, clenching my hands to keep them steady. "He was _pushed_?!"

Renie nodded shakily and Holmes scowled in angry thought, his hand clenching on the American's trembling shoulder.

"Just as you were, Watson."

* * *

**All right, all right, don't go getting out the air-guns, you know we update regularly!**


	12. The Ghost of an Injury

_There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury._

_- Alexander Smith_

* * *

_**Watson**_

"I didn't know where to find a Doctor, didn't know who's out to kill us, I could only think to get him somewhere safe…then I contacted you."

"Where was he hurt?" I asked, pulling back the coverlet and lifting Lachlan's shirt cautiously.

"His arm…he hurt his arm…and he was having trouble breathing." Renie's voice broke and from behind his hand there was leaking a suspicious moisture. "I didn't know what to do…I'm so sorry…"

Holmes put a bracing hand on the lad's shoulder and watched anxiously as I ran my hands over Lachlan's ribcage…the left side sported several large bruises and scrapes that could only have been caused by the iron-shod hoofs of a cab horse.

As my hand passed over a particularly dark bruise Lachlan stiffened; I probed gently and felt some give, and the seaman's face contorted and his breathing grew sharper and shallower.

"His ribs are broken." I reported, taking my stethoscope out of the bag, "two of them, and one more beneath that I think may only be bruised."

From the sound of things Lachlan's lungs had not been damaged, and his heart sounded perfectly normal. I concluded that the horse had probably struck him out of the way of the cab, instead of actually running over him; else the injuries would have been so much more severe and probably would have damaged his lungs or other organs. I put away my equipment and moved to his arm, which lay on his chest.

It was the arm that he had fractured on the _Friesland_ in his pursuit of Smith, and the one that he had subsequently damaged while in India with Haight. He had re-broken it.

It was flushed an angry red, offering contrast to his pale face, and it was swollen from wrist to elbow. I touched it cautiously.

Lachlan groaned at once and shifted, his breaths rasping sharply. Renie's pale face shot up and he looked ready to bolt from his chair to the seaman's side. I waved him gently back.

"Lachlan?"

Another groan, the seaman's brow furrowed further, his eyelids flickered.

I filled a glass that stood upon the table and raised Lachlan's head, holding the glass to his lips. Lachlan swallowed convulsively, choked and began to cough, gasping as the movement jarred his ribs.

"Easy," I tried to support him, setting aside the glass. "Easy Lachlan, concentrate on breathing."

When Holmes stiffened, I only then realised with a sickening jolt that that had been the exact wording the midshipman had used with me when I was dying on the _Friesland. _I hastily shook off the memory – this was not the time.

It took a moment but at last he was able to take a shuddering breath; then to my great relief he spoke in a rather rasping whisper.

"I thought I told you, that I don't take stock in doctors."

I smiled and a great sense of relief washed over me; if he could joke then he would be all right.

"You also said you would make an exception in my case, Lachlan, and if I am to be your Doctor then I should like to be listened to."

The blue eyes flickered open, glazed and unfocused.

"You're a right bully, Doctor."

Holmes chuckled and Renie went almost limp in his chair.

Lachlan turned his head to look at the two of them. He smiled upon seeing Holmes and then his eyes settled on his young associate.

"Still here, are you?"

Haight let out a shuddering breath and his lips twitched in a nervous smile.

"You still owe me for the train tickets."

I sighed and moved to examine Lachlan's arm…they would _both_ be all right.

The moment my hands brushed the wounded limb Lachlan stiffened again and he gritted his teeth, swearing in the colourful manner of his profession, not that I blamed him…it must have been painful…and he had been without relief or medical treatment for over twelve hours.

"Blazes, Doctor! Don't touch that!"

"It's broken, Lachlan, and it needs to be treated, hold on a moment."

He groaned and glared at Holmes.

"'Twas you that taught him to be a bully, Holmes…I blame you for this entire -"

He broke off abruptly as I felt the bone, not a sound escaping his lips which he pressed together until they were white. I laid it down.

"I'll need to set it, the ulna and the radius are broken clean through. They haven't broken the skin but there is some tissue damage – you are extremely lucky it is a clean break. It's nothing I can't take care of. I'm sorry, old fellow"

"I think I might prefer…to leave it, Doctor…since it just can't seem to stay mended," he growled softly.

I put a hand on his shoulder as Renie hovered on the edge of his seat, biting his lip.

"Holmes," I turned to my friend. "I'll need some water for the plaster. Haight, you stay and help me."

Holmes went off without a word, graciously following my orders as though he were not the great detective and I his second-in-command.

I took off my coat and jacket and quickly rolled up my shirtsleeves. Renie got to his feet, casting nervous glances from me to Lachlan. I took a packet of powder from my bag that when mixed with the water would become plaster, along with a roll of bandaging.

Lachlan watched me, his dull-cast eyes fearful, his mouth tightly drawn.

I tried to smile reassuringly. "It's all right, Lachlan, it will be quick, I have done this many times."

The seaman snorted. "In other words, it's going to hurt like blue blazes, isn't it?" He closed his eyes again. "Why is it you doctors must cause more pain before you fix it?"

"Because fixing it is painful," I said. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "'S all right Doctor…just don't take it too personal when I curse at you."

"What can I do?" Haight asked, his voice still unsteady.

"I need you to keep him still."

Renie froze and turned slightly pale at this declaration, and Lachlan's eyes shot open and looked at me in alarm.

"Doctor…I don't think…"

"It is better if you don't, Lachlan, just lie still. It is necessary and yes, Haight, you can do it, now come over here."

I showed the lad how to position himself, which he did with some hesitation, and I then took hold of Lachlan's arm.

"Are you ready?" I asked the reporter.

He nodded stoically and took a firm grip on Lachlan's shoulder and right hand. I looked down to the midshipman.

"All right, Lachlan…take a breath."

He did so, swallowing, trembling slightly from nervousness and the pain that he was already feeling.

I took hold of the broken left arm and shifted it back into place in one smooth gesture.

Lachlan tensed like a horse about to spring and only Renie's weight kept him down. He opened his mouth in a shout that died into a string of curses so colourful and vehement they fairly burnt my ears.

His eyes were clenched shut though they had watered and tears leaked out from under the lids, his face drained of the little color it had, and his breathing came very fast. Too fast, really, for his broken ribs.

I felt to make certain that the bones were in place, and then I gently laid the arm straight out beside him.

"You can let him go, Haight," I told the reporter, who slowly withdrew, his own face twisted in a grimace of sympathy.

I sat beside the seaman, putting a hand on either shoulder.

"It's alright Lachlan, try to breathe deeply, and don't move the arm."

He swore at me again, his voice breaking off into a slight moan.

"Just breathe, old chap. It's over."

He did as I instructed, evening out his breaths until at last they were steady once more, then he opened his eyes and looked at me again…apparently lacking the energy to even glare.

"I'm sorry." I said.

The seaman took a breath, then shook his head. "Don't be…feels better…thank you."

There was a chuckle and Renie and I turned to see that Holmes had reentered the room with a basin in his hands.

"I don't think I've ever heard such a collection of adjectives in all my years among the criminal population, Mr. Lachlan."

Lachlan let out a short, breathless laugh.

"I should hope not…took me years to accumulate…I've even gained a few new ones from Renie here."

Renie, who had collapsed back into his chair looking almost totally limp, smiled.

"At least we know you're going to live, Lachlan, if that horse wasn't enough to knock your vocabulary out of you."

Lachlan laughed again, but then winced as the movement jarred his ribs.

I took the basin from Holmes and put it on the table. "All right Lachlan, all we have to do is plaster it and let it dry, and then I'll bind your ribs for you. I'll give you some morphine first."

I moved to do so, but was interrupted by Holmes.

"How long does he need, Watson?"

I looked to my friend and saw that, far from being impatient, he was standing by with a look almost as anxious as that of Haight's.

I turned and inserted the needle into Lachlan's arm.

"A day, Holmes, at least – perhaps more, I won't know until tomorrow. Unless infection sets in, if we leave on the morning following tomorrow he should do fine. We shall just have to be careful."

Lachlan looked at us curiously, then traded a look with Renie.

"Leave?" the American asked, his ginger brows furrowed in question.

"You're coming with us to Weissberg Castle," Holmes said with a smile. "And believe me, no one else will touch Lachlan…not there."

My friend's expression was ever-so-slightly feral and I knew that he meant what he said.

No one else would harm either of them, not while they were under ours, and most especially his, protection. They were quite safe now.

* * *

"Watson."

I jumped, startled out of my rather distressing thoughts by a hand on my shoulder.

"Sorry. Do you need anything, old chap? Coffee, dinner?" Holmes asked.

"No, thank you," I replied quietly, hoping that my tone would convey my thanks as I could not manage just now to make a smile.

"Look, if you get too tired fetch me, all right?"

"I'm a doctor, Holmes – I've sat by more bedsides all night than you've solved cases, a good portion of them being _your_ bed," I said, but this time managing a smile at him.

"And I've done the same, if you'll recall," he said sternly, "seriously, old man. I shall just be in the other room."

I nodded. "Thank you. Throw a blanket over Haight before you start your human smokestack impression, eh?"

Holmes grinned and nodded, his austere features softening as he glanced at the poor young American, who had finally fallen over in his chair and was sound asleep. He clasped my shoulder tightly, leaning over me to look at the steadily breathing form of our midshipman, completely oblivious to the world under the dose of morphine I had given him after setting his arm and wrapping his ribs.

Finally Holmes nodded in satisfaction, releasing my shoulder and stretching with a small yawn, then going to his valise and quietly digging out his pipe and a tobacco-pouch. He tossed a blanket over Haight, threw me an encouraging look, and then disappeared into the other room, no doubt intending to stay up all night as I was, albeit for a different reason.

For the next three hours, well into the darkness of a deep winter night, I kept Lachlan well-warmed with all the blankets besides the one on his young friend, checking for anything abnormal in breathing or temperature. Thankfully, either the finally getting treatment for the injuries or else knowing there were people near to guard from whatever had done this to him had worked wonders in his appearance, so that I no longer desperately feared so much for him.

I had just checked my watch to find it well after eleven and was slumping back in my chair when a small gasp behind me sounded loudly in the stillness of the room. I hastily turned to see the American turn uneasily on his chair, murmuring something and clenching one fist in the blanket Holmes had tossed over him.

I frowned, for the lad needed restful sleep, not a nightmare. But instead of quieting the young fellow's movements grew more restless, and I heard him call out Lachlan's name in a low, almost sobbing tone.

The sound of it sent a pang through my heart, for that was part of the role that I had played over the years so many times. He was far too young to be carrying that kind of burden unconsciously. I rose from my chair and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder just as he called for Lachlan again.

At my touch he suddenly shot out of his chair, fumbling under his coat for what I assumed was a shoulder holster for a revolver.

"Haight, calm down!" I said soothingly, taking the shaking lad's arm and guiding him back to his chair, where he collapsed with a limp sigh of relief.

"Sorry about that, Doctor. You just never know when –"

"It's perfectly all right," I assured him, glancing back at Lachlan who was still peacefully slumbering. I then pulled my chair up in front of the reporter's, straddling it casually and resting my arms on the back of it, looking at the young man.

He fidgeted nervously, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and then suddenly as if a candle had been blown out his composure crumbled under my gaze and he drew his knees up and put his head down on them, shaking all over.

"Haight, do you drink?"

I heard a rather damp snort, and then saw a slight nod. I got up and fetched Holmes's flask, pouring the reporter a shot of brandy and forcing him to gulp it down before resuming my seat. For a good three or four minutes we sat there like that, until finally Haight gave a kind of choking gasp and lifted his face, cocking an eyebrow at me.

"Lachlan says you Englishmen don't often lose it as much as we do," he offered, by way of apology I supposed.

"Perhaps not visibly," I said softly, "but in my opinion, a nightmare is one of the worst possible forms of torture a man can be subjected to – and he is not responsible for it in the least. The mind is a powerful weapon when turned against itself."

The reporter gave me a very odd look. "You talk as if –"

"As if from experience?"

The young fellow nodded curiously.

"All comes of being an ex-soldier, and after that the constant companion of a man who likes to lead a dangerous life," I said pointedly, nodding toward the open door to the other bedroom and then back at Lachlan. "You probably should realise right now that it's all part and parcel of the deal, Haight. And not likely to get better as the years go by and the evil in the world grows worse."

Haight looked me straight in the eyes. "I hate it."

"What?"

"The helplessness. For heaven's sake, Doctor – I pulled you out from under a train and I barely know you! Why in heaven's name didn't I see that – that cab? I didn't even know anything was wrong until a passer-by s-screamed…"

The poor fellow's voice broke off abruptly, and he buried his face again in his knees, his shoulders shaking.

"I'm…sorry, Doctor," I heard the muffled voice, "I know this is…rather…childish…"

"Haight, there is nothing childish about nearly losing a person you love," I said sadly, remembering all too well the pain of my wife's death and the pain of Holmes's, though I had gotten him back from the very grave so to speak. "And there is nothing childish about tears after a scare that bad, either, though some Englishmen may say otherwise."

"I'm not actually crying, Doctor…just awfully close," the young fellow gasped, and I recognised the signs of both delayed shock, exhaustion, and residual fear from a nightmare. If left untouched, the reporter would keep it all inside until one day he broke down, which was neither healthy nor good for his pride in front of Lachlan.

"Haight, you need to talk about it."

"About – what?" he asked faintly.

"The nightmare," I said gently as I could, for I knew I was treading on thin ice.

The reporter lifted his head wearily. "It's – it's nothing."

"Nightmares rarely are _nothing_," I replied, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged, dashing a hand over his eyes in a swift, almost angry movement. "Just about the whole train thing – only this time it was _him_, not you."

"And…you didn't get to him in time?" I finished in a low tone.

Haight wordlessly shook his head, but gave me another questioning, rather vulnerable glance, to which I smiled, reaching out to put a hand on the fellow's shoulder, hoping he would not think it too familiar.

"Lad, you've chosen a rather rough road to travel, you know. The life of a Boswell is not an easy one – you will never, ever stop worrying so about Lachlan, and you'll never stop having those kind of dreams occasionally, I can attest to that. It's unfortunate, but it's a part of the price you pay in this business."

Haight's brown eyes darkened in something akin to sympathy.

"And you will spend the better portion of your days worrying about your idiotically bold companion and what he's gotten you into this time," I said with a small grin.

I elicited one in return, which was a major improvement, and after a moment the smile quirked into a rather lopsided smirk.

"What advice would you give me on the matter, from one sidekick to the other?" he asked, those eyes dancing with a more lighthearted twinkle as he glanced at me.

I could not help but grin at the young reporter, glad to see him shake off the black mood of the dream, though I did sober upon thinking for a few minutes. Finally I looked back up and spoke very seriously.

"Well, for one thing - "

"Shall I get my notebook?" he asked pertly. At my eye-roll, he grinned briefly before huddling back up in the chair and giving me his very earnest attention.

"For one thing, you have to have a sense of humour," I said dryly, "though I doubt you have a problem in that area."

Haight smirked.

"You also," I went on more seriously, "must have trust in your friend. Because if you don't believe in him, he won't believe in himself. No matter how outlandish or ridiculous the situation is, no matter how much it goes against your better judgment, you have to trust him. Always follow him – and let him know you'll always follow him – and don't look back unless it's to watch for danger."

The reporter's brows knitted thoughtfully for a few minutes.

"Is there something else, Doctor?" he asked curiously.

I glanced back at the still figure on the bed, then at the lad's still slightly shaking hands.

"Love," I said simply, "because that's the only thing that will keep you sane after a scare like this. And because you have to be willing to do anything in the world to protect him. That's why it hurts you so badly when you don't quite succeed, like this. There will be times when you can't protect him, either from himself or from someone else – but you have to keep trying."

The American looked at me a bit strangely, but his features softened as he then glanced from me to the still form of our mutual friend on the hotel bed.

"Odd words coming from one of you placid Englishmen," he said softly, glancing back at me with a rather impertinent grin.

I smiled. "I'm not talking as one Englishman to another. Besides, I'm only telling you what you already know, I believe."

Haight's eyes dimmed for a moment, and he shoved a hand in my direction, which I shook warmly.

"I do believe I can see why Lachlan talks so highly of you, Doctor," he said quietly, shaking out the blanket and pulling it back over him, his eyelids drooping. "That was quite good advice. If I can't remember in the morning, will you write it down for me?"

"Not if you're going to quote it in your paper or something."

Haight laughed softly. "No, no. Though it is worthy of such."

I smiled at the compliment.

"Thank you, Doctor," the reporter said suddenly, opening his eyes to glance up at me, "you really, really have helped, I do believe."

"Good. Now you had better go to sleep or Lachlan will kill me for keeping you up all night," I said with a grin.

Haight's eyes twinkled at me before they slid over to rest once more on Lachlan, then fluttered closed at last. For a moment I stood there, looking down at the poor exhausted young fellow, pulling the blanket up a bit further to his chin.

As I straightened up, the clock in the hall of the hotel struck midnight, and I suddenly remembered what day it was – New Year's Eve. Or rather, New Year's Day now. We had completely forgotten the holiday in the face of this near-tragedy; I had wondered why the noise from downstairs was so loud but had not thought much of it until this second. I truly had been worried, enough that all thoughts of celebration had never even entered my mind.

I glanced at my watch with a small sigh, rubbing my eyes wearily and preparing for a long night vigil. Life went on, sadly enough, without stopping for the holiday. Not the most pleasant way I had ever spent New Year's, but certainly the most important.

But as I turned round from the young reporter, I was startled and more than a little embarrassed to see Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway to the other room – and judging from the very odd softness of his eyes, he had heard that entire romantically idealistic exchange between Haight and me.

But that was not what drew my attention at first – it was the fact that he had evidently re-dressed and gone downstairs, and was now holding two small champagne glasses with a slightly timid smile.

I felt the blush leave my face and be replaced with a grin, as I walked over to the doorway.

"Thought you didn't take much stock in holidays," I said in a low voice so as not to awaken our friends.

"Not normally, no. And _no_, I am not singing _Auld Lang Syne_ with you, dear chap," he said with a quiet laugh, extending the glass hesitantly towards mine.

I smiled, and our glasses met with a small clink.

"Happy New Year, my dear Watson."

* * *

**-collective sigh of relief- No more cliffhangers...for now...**


	13. This Would Be the House

_I'd like to wish **Twisted Midnight Dreams **__a Happy Birthday, and to dedicate this chapter to her. Sorry, TMD, someone already did the request you sent me for a birthday fic, so I hope you like this._

* * *

_Well, if I were going to __haunt__ anybody, this would certainly be the house I'd do it in._

_- Robb White_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

Watson and I stayed up for several hours after midnight; I had decided my time might be better spent in keeping him company than in pondering a problem involving no data.

Was the cab accident related to us, or was the train accident related to them? Was the train accident really aimed at Renie instead of Watson? Surely the coincidence was too monstrous that both had been mere accidents – no, that was utterly absurd. But…

If the train had been directed at Watson, then this would indicate that the cab incident was also related to our case. But why attack Lachlan and Haight instead of Watson and me, essentially trapped as we were in an out-of-the way castle? Why the other two, in the midst of a metropolis like Vienna?

And how in the world had this...ghost, for lack of a better word, found Lachlan and his friend anyhow?

Those questions had been beating in my brain like a relentless hammer, and I could fathom absolutely no connection between the incidents. There was one, I could feel that there was one, but I could not uncover it as of yet, I had not enough data.

That was why when I had glanced at the time and realised it was nearing midnight and that we had both forgotten it was New Year's Eve, I had given into a bit of hopeless sentimentality and gone to fetch two glasses of champagne.

When I had returned, apparently Lachlan's young associate had had a nightmare, for my dear friend was endeavouring to comfort him – and no better man for the job, I knew based upon past personal experience. I smiled even as I stood in the doorway listening…but I was more than a little shocked, and oddly warmed, by the words he had told the young reporter about what he called 'the role of a Boswell'.

Slightly romantic sentiments, indeed they were – but literally true where he was concerned, and I could not help but be touched by them. In consequence, I had then decided my time would be better spent in endeavouring to keep his mind off our injured friend, rather than in sitting up all night smoking and accomplishing nothing for lack of data. After all, this was the first New Year's we had spent together since my return.

Around four in the morning Watson did finally convince me to turn in for the night, insisting that he was perfectly fine to continue watching the midshipman, and I did obey his orders – but only for the purpose of resting enough that I could then take over the vigil the next night, with or without his leave.

But evidently the champagne was too much for me on an empty stomach, or else I was more tired than I had thought, for it was well after noon when I awoke later that day.

Watson was still sitting in that same chair beside Lachlan's head when I walked into the room, but I was very glad to see the sailor's blue eyes alert and even twinkling a bit, laughing at some tale Watson was spinning about some adventure we had had last autumn.

Renie Haight was sitting on the end of the bed, his legs swinging merrily, and also laughing at my dear Watson's storytelling ability. He was chewing on some dubious-looking sandwich that I assumed had come from the hotel kitchen, and a few crusts of bread and one sandwich remaining on a plate told me that Watson and Lachlan had also eaten.

"Morning, Holmes," Watson said with a smile, though I could see in his eyes that he was rather more tired than he let on, "we saved you some luncheon."

"More like _afternoon_, Holmes," Lachlan growled from behind him, "where've you been, this bloody Doctor's been driving me out of my mind with his infernal fussing."

"Unfortunately, I appear to have slept longer than I intended," I said ruefully, though I had to admit it was the first time in three days that I had actually woken up feeling rested.

Lachlan harrumphed loudly, and Haight smirked at Watson.

"I must apologise for Lachlan's language, Doctor, he gets rather out-of-sorts when he's been lazy for more than a day –"

"Lazy!" the sailor came as close to roaring as he could without straining those bandaged ribs, which actually was not loud at all though his face turned purple. "Why you puny little pencil-pushing –"

"Lachlan!" Watson said sternly, his hands on his hips, "there is nothing in the world wrong with 'pencil-pushing', as you so ineloquently call it."

Lachlan glanced at me for aid, but I backed up, my hands in the air.

"I have to live with him, Lachlan, I am definitely not stupid enough to get in on this particular argument!"

"Good grief, you're both grouchy this morning," the lad said, miffed.

"Try _every_ morning," Watson said dryly, removing his stethoscope and beginning to listen to Lachlan's lungs once more.

But both my joviality and Haight's affronted attitude dissipated as we waited for Watson's verdict.

"It appears that there's nothing wrong with your lungs," he murmured, inserting a thermometer into the seaman's mouth.

"Of course there's not, didn't you hear that swearing last night?" Haight asked with a deadpan face.

Lachlan growled something that sounded rather rude from behind the thermometer.

"Stop moving your mouth," Watson admonished in irritation, timing the glass.

Within a few minutes he removed the instrument and glanced at it, his brows furrowing.

"What's wrong?" I was quick to ask.

"Well, he has a low-grade fever," my friend said, a bit puzzled, "but as far as I can see there's no sign of infection yet. Really shouldn't be, because there's no real skin injury, just a few abrasions."

"Is that bad?" Haight asked.

"Well, not serious, I'll just have to watch him. But if he still has one tomorrow morning, I wouldn't recommend moving him until I can figure out why," he told me pointedly.

I nodded. "You're the doctor, you're deciding."

"Since when does the patient not get to decide?" Lachlan grumbled irritably.

"Since the doctor's last name is Watson," I said dryly, "believe me, it does no good to voice an opinion with that stubborn man."

"You know, you should sleep eight hours at a time more often, you get in such a perfectly chipper mood on the odd occasion it happens," my friend sighed in apparent exasperation, but his eyes met mine in a mischievous look that told me he was not in the least offended.

I pulled a face for Lachlan's benefit and finished my sandwich, making a mental note to ensure that I ordered the food next time, for it truly was atrocious.

Haight sighed limply, collapsing into the chair Watson had vacated, and the Doctor patted Lachlan's shoulder reassuringly, telling him not to move. He then took up his valise, which he evidently had left in this room after changing this morning before I awoke, and moved it and the other bag we had brought to the other room, to get them out of our friends' ways.

I followed him unnoticed, and felt my brows knit when he dropped the luggage wearily and then leaned against the wall for a moment, rubbing his eyes.

"Watson, get some sleep."

"Hmm?" he asked, blinking. "Oh, right."

I chuckled. "You look like you're already out on your feet, old chap."

It was indeed amazing, part of his success as a Doctor, that he could be at top form in front of the necessary people, performing his duties flawlessly and without letting on to others his exhaustion.

"P'rhaps I am," he muttered with a stifled yawn.

"Go on, my dear fellow. Do I need to do anything to Lachlan besides occasionally check his temperature and breathing?"

"Morphine, if he wants it…you of course know how to…" he suddenly blinked sleepily, realising what that sounded like. "I didn't mean –"

I chuckled, not offended. "Yes, Watson, your entire reading public knows that I am rather proficient at the art of injection."

His tired eyes smiled. "And keep him quiet. That is essential, 'specially if we're going to be moving him."

"Right. Go on now, Watson."

He nodded blearily and stumbled toward the bed, which now was divested of blankets – I had used my coat and the one remaining blanket the night before and had been rather chilly when I woke as a result.

I made my way into the other bedroom, took up Haight's discarded cover from the night before and yanked one off the pile on Lachlan amidst a squawk of surprise, and returned to the other bedroom.

I nearly laughed when I saw that my friend had already fallen fast asleep, sprawled across the bed, blankets or no, but I spread them over him anyway and left, shutting the door behind me.

"'Bout time," Haight said quietly, glancing at the closed door, "he looked like he was going to fall over around seven this morning."

"He's a Doctor, first and foremost," I said softly, "and when the patient's a friend I've seen him stay up for four nights running with barely any sleep at all."

Haight gave a knowing smile, as if he held a great secret that I did not, and looked back to Lachlan, who appeared to be resting comfortably, exhausted after the talk of the morning.

"Haight, if we are to move you both out of here tomorrow morning, what about your paper and the story you were assigned to?" I asked, taking a vacated chair and lighting a cigarette. I offered one to the young man, but he shook his head and I put the case back in my pocket.

"I sent them a telegram already saying Lachlan was injured and I suspected foul play. A mildly censured version of their reply would translate something to the effect of _'Both of you get the heck out of Vienna as soon as Lachlan can travel'_," Haight said dryly. "They can't afford to lose their main selling attraction right now."

I laughed. "Good, then that is taken care of."

"Wonderful," Lachlan's voice floated over to us, "I go from being run over by a cab to a draughty ghost-hunting resort. Great for the recovery process."

"That's the _spirit_," Haight punned with a horribly smug smirk.

Lachlan glanced at me. "Shall I kill him, or would you like to save me the trouble?"

_**Watson**_

It was early evening when I finally woke, and though I knew I needed the sleep I still did not like having left my patient alone for so long. Also, Holmes and Haight were themselves worn out from their vigil, and when I entered the room I found them, seated near the bed, Holmes with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled together, and Haight nearly dozing on the very edge of the bed, still fingering his revolver.

The noise made by my entry put them both on the alert; Holmes's eyes sprang open and Haight jerked upright, bringing up his revolver.

"Haight, put that down!" I snapped rather nervously, for I had no way of knowing whether the frayed nerves of the man would allow him to recognize me before he shot.

He did notice and went slightly red as he realized his mistake, setting the gun on the bedside table. Holmes said nothing but watched as I crossed over to the bed and bent over Lachlan who appeared to be asleep.

After a long silent moment during which Haight fidgeted, his eyes anxious, Holmes at last spoke.

"Is there any change, Watson?"

I looked up at the two rather concerned men, trying to smile in a reassuring manner.

"Yes…the rest has done him good, the fever has not risen. If he has not worsened by morning I think we may move him if it is necessary."

Holmes sighed in some relief and nodded in satisfaction. "I must say you look better for your rest, Watson."

"I needed it…and most especially for tonight. Holmes, I shall need you and Renie on full alert tomorrow. I shall take the watch again tonight…_alone._" I added hastily as the American opened his mouth to object.

"There is still danger, Mr. Haight," Holmes said. "And we would rather you shoot at the correct person rather than the good Doctor…especially since your friend still needs him."

"You'd best listen to them, Renie," mumbled a sleep-laden voice from the bed. "I put a lot of good work into Dr. Watson…too much to have you do away with him so easily."

Haight looked somewhat disgruntled and I tried to hide a smile.

"How do you feel, Lachlan?"

The seaman opened his blue eyes and I was relieved to see them fairly clear and alert.

"A deal better, Doctor; though to be honest, with the cast and the bandaging I feel about as trussed up as a Christmas goose."

"Do you feel up to a bit of traveling tomorrow?" I asked.

"If you allow me, Doctor, I should like to leave this blasted bed just as soon as can be."

"Tomorrow morning, then…if there are no complications."

Lachlan sighed impatiently but offered no other objections. Holmes got to his feet with a groan and stretched his long limbs.

"Very well, then. I'll shall see about some supper for us and then Mr. Haight and I will do as you bid and rest, Watson…but if you need a reprieve in the night don't hesitate to ask."

Taking in the grogginess of the two men, and the way in which even Holmes appeared to be without his usual fever of energy, I thought that to be very unlikely.

That night was particularly uneventful. We had supper, a barely passable and very watery soup, and then the others drifted off to sleep, leaving me to watch after Lachlan.

Throughout the long hours his temperature remained steady and his color, breathing, and pulse as good as could be expected under the circumstances; so that I when at last the morning came and the others awoke I could offer no real objections to moving him.

I had begun to wonder whether I could keep the seaman resting for much longer anyway as his nerves were not only becoming frayed from the bedrest, but also from my constant doctoring. I had the feeling that had I raised an objection, I would have been no match for that sailor's temper.

When Haight showed a tendency to hover at his elbow just after he had risen, he growled at the reporter outright to leave him be.

The American was used to Lachlan's grumblings, however, and he only smiled indulgently, assisting Lachlan down the stairs of the hostel and into the cab we had acquired for the trip to the train station.

I also kept an eye on my patient and among the three of us we were able to make the station and tuck ourselves at last into a compartment near the rear of the train, and at long last I was able to breathe more easily.

Holmes smiled at me from where he sat, just across from Lachlan who lay on the opposite set of seats, covered in a number of mufflers and a blanket or two, for even this small step in the journey had drained his limited reserves of strength.

"I think it is your turn to get some rest, Watson," my friend said, "the next compartment is empty - I shall watch after our friends."

Haight, who sat beside Holmes, had not yet reholstered his revolver and was in fact examining the chambers. He snorted at the detective's remark but also added his voice in persuasion.

"You've done a lot, Doc, you look just about beat."

I nodded, for my head really was very heavy and I longed to rest myself, and I could most certainly leave the midshipman in their capable hands.

No sooner had I entered the neighboring compartment and rested my head then I was, as Mr. Haight would put it, "_out like a light,_" every care and thought fleeing my mind like water from a sieve.

I must have been more exhausted then I had believed for I spent quite a few hours in blissful unconsciousness and would have continued to slumber had I not been aroused by a hand shaking my shoulder.

I opened my sleep-bleared eyes to see that it was once again nearly evening. I looked up curiously and saw none other than Holmes bending over me, his pale, thin face made paler and more severe by the tension that covered it.

"Watson, I think you had best come quickly."

I felt a sudden fear in my chest and sat up hastily.

"What is it, Holmes?"

"It's Lachlan."

He exited the compartment, beckoning to me to follow, and I was quickly at his heels.

Haight was bent over our fallen companion, his hands on the seaman's shoulders. Lachlan was unconscious still, though now his face was flushed red and his forehead beaded with sweat, his breathing more labored than before, and he had attempted to kick off his covers for now they lay tangled about his lower limbs.

I hurried to stand alongside Haight, and taking the glove from my hand I laid it on the man's forehead.

"The fever has risen." I said tersely, frustration flooding me at the thought that in allowing my patient to be moved I had caused him to relapse. "We should have waited a little longer Holmes…the cold cannot be helping anything, and it is too freezing for me to check his injuries for infection."

"It is my fault, Watson," Holmes muttered, standing behind us, his arms akimbo, scowling down at the ill man. "In my eagerness to return to our investigation I allowed that your good advice should be overlooked."

"What can we do?" Haight asked, his face pale and sombre as though he had a great weight on his shoulders…and indeed he had, for though we had gone through a great deal with Lachlan in the _Friesland_ affair, it was the American who had spent the last seven months in the role of his friend and companion, in more than one deadly adventure.

I sighed, wishing I had some assurance to give the younger man, "We can do little more than we have already, there is little use in going back…we can only see him through this trip. Holmes, would you hand me my medical kit?"

Holmes obliged and I removed my thermometer, swiftly taking the sick man's temperature…finding it to be a definite fever, but thankfully not dangerously high as yet.

"How long has he been like this?" I asked after reporting these findings to my friends.

"Half an hour," said Holmes, "when it grew to this we thought it best to fetch you."

"You were right." I said, drawing the coverings back over Lachlan and setting a hand on his shoulder to settle him as he moaned and shifted uneasily beneath them. "Have you given him anything to drink?"

"He took some water." said Haight, "But not much…Doctor will…?"

"He'll be all right, Haight, we'll make certain of it…how long do we have to go?"

Holmes pulled out his watch and checked it. "Two hours. You were not asleep for all that long, Watson, I am sorry."

"If you apologise for one more thing, I am going to banish you from this compartment," I growled distractedly, listening to the midshipman's lungs – thank heaven, no wheezing as of yet, though his breathing was rather heavy.

Holmes did not laugh at my humour, which showed his tension more clearly than the way he checked his watch yet again, as if to make the seconds tick by faster.

* * *

"Haight, be careful, watch his head," I hissed worriedly, as Lachlan staggered against the slight American as we moved him to the bed.

"_Meine Herren,_ are you in need of anything else?" Mueller asked from the doorway.

"No, thank you, I can take it from here," I said over my shoulder, settling the midshipman gently on the bed.

Lachlan's face flushed a bright red as he nearly collapsed back onto the cushions.

"Blast it all, and I was even feeling a bit better this mornin'," he growled irritably. "Renie, go get yourself a drink, you look like you're going to keel over right there."

The lad's face was deadly pale, and I sighed - obviously the fellow had not seen Lachlan ill much before. I really did not need a panicking reporter on my hands, but Holmes had gone to see the Count and explain matters and so I took what I could get.

"Haight, look at me," I said quietly, inserting the thermometer under Lachlan's tongue, "he will be perfectly fine, provided we watch him for pneumonia. I promise."

The lad sighed, gave me an uneven smile, and fetched another blanket for our friend. Lachlan grinned at me around the glass in his mouth.

I removed the thermometer and read it – right at 100 degrees.

"Well?" Haight asked, peeking over my shoulder.

"It's not too high as of yet – probably just caught a cold, and that one scrape on his ribcage is inflamed, the infection is what is causing the fever in all probability," I said soothingly, removing a bottle of antiseptic from my bag.

"OI! DOCTOR!"

An overjoyed squeal broke the stillness of the sickroom as a ginger-haired blur nearly knocked Mueller over and fairly leapt at me.

"Alfred Weber! Keep your voice down!" I gasped, staggering under the boy's weight and gingerly laying down the bottle.

"Oi just seen Mr. 'Olmes go inta 'is room, an' 'e said yew was down 'ere wit Mr. Lachlan," the lad said excitedly.

"Alfie, Mr. Lachlan has been hurt, you must be quiet," I hissed, gesturing toward the bed. The midshipman's face creased in the feeble ghost of a smile at the lad's horrified countenance.

"Bloody h-"

"ALFIE!"

"Oi mean, wha' 'appened ta yew, Mr. Lachlan?" he whispered, peeking up under Renie's elbow.

"Just an accident with a cab horse, lad. Nothing to worry about," Lachlan said with a smile. I could see from his eyes, however, that he was in dire need of rest, so I shooed Alfie out into the hallway.

"Go back to your room, I'll be there in just a minute to put you to bed, Alfie."

"Is 'e gonna be oll roight, Doctor?" the lad whispered.

"Yes," I said firmly, and loudly for the American's benefit, "he'll be fine with rest and care. Now you scamper, lad. I'll be there in a minute."

I re-entered Lachlan's room, and sent the reporter for a pitcher of water and some clean cloths – if the sick man's fever went up I should have need of them shortly. Then I sent Mueller for a pot of coffee for me and set about cleaning the abrasions on Lachlan's side, receiving a blue curse for my pains.

"You can't be feeling too badly, then," Haight said behind me with a dry smirk as I finished.

"Lachlan, you need to rest now and you _will_ do exactly as I say, do you hear me?" I said sternly. "I shall be far too busy to deal with a relapse, so don't you dare have one!"

The sailor guffawed, his fevered eyes glinting for a moment before he closed them in apparent submission.

I had no opportunity to congratulate myself on the victory, however, for there was a loud, piercing shriek from the hall, and I dashed into it, nearly bowling over a petrified little boy.

"Alfie, what's wrong?!"

"Look," he wailed, pointing down the corridor behind me, "she's back again, jist loike Miss Cecilia said she would be!"

I whirled round as Alfie dove behind me, and I felt my eyes widen. _No, it was just a legend…_

"_**Holmes**_! Get out here!"


	14. Visionary Ghosts

_Thin airy shoals of visionary __ghosts__._

_- Alexander Pope (1688–1744)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

I nearly threw my pipe across the room when I heard Watson's shout, for it was filled with a note of barely controlled panic. Had Lachlan's condition suddenly worsened?

I snatched my jacket and struggled into it on my way out the door, stumbling into the hallway and glancing rapidly about me. Watson was standing down the hall outside Lachlan's room, in the act of pulling Alfie behind him against the wall…and beyond him…

I froze, my brain sluggishly processing the idea that a _ghost_ was standing at the end of the corridor. _Ridiculous, it was just a legend._

But it was there, or _something_ was – the white-garbed, filmy figure of a woman in a bridal gown and veil, the flimsy material floating round her in a white cloud. She spoke not an intelligible word, but pointed with a frightfully disturbing moaning noise to my rather distraught friend who stood with his back to the door and the shaking boy cowering behind his legs.

I do not possess nor wish to possess Watson's floridly picturesque vocabulary, and therefore cannot truly reproduce in colourful prose what I saw; but at that moment my mind could only cogitate the ghostly form of a moaning woman, and a general freezing aura of fear that whispered and wrapped round us, filling the corridor with an almost tangible chill and making me ridiculously want to draw closer to Watson for some semblance of comfort and companionship.

_Drivel. It was a myth, nothing more, despite what I was seeing. _I shook myself sternly…this case was certainly dulling my mental faculties if my reflexes were in such a shoddy state.

Ghost or no ghost, this was our first lead, and once my brain unfroze I was not about to pass up this opportunity. The woman pointed once more and made some dreadful moaning noise, her veil floating in a semicircle round her head, and then she turned and walked slowly, one arm outstretched, in the opposite direction, leaving a positive vacuum of black chillness behind her.

Finally my legs became unfastened from the floor, and I took off at a dead sprint, slapping Watson's shoulder as I darted past him.

"Come on, Watson!"

I heard his sharp intake of breath before I flew by, but I did not stop, just ran after the woman. Or whatever it was.

The figure glanced back, and then hastily turned into a pitch-black side corridor, so quickly that I had gone a few steps past it before being able to halt my sprint and had to back up, moving after the retreating white blur as it turned another corner. Behind me I heard pounding footsteps, and a moment later Watson had caught up with me.

"Holmes, what - ?" he gasped from behind me as we pounded after the disappearing woman.

Blast it, she knew the castle better than I did, for she was making her way through the corridors with ease in the dark; I nearly bashed my brains out on a stone corner, not seeing it until almost too late. Now I had lost sight of her through that doorway…

I put on a burst of speed and darted through the door – to find myself in a long narrow side corridor lined with bookcases and the odd article of furniture. A long skylight allowed a bright beam of moonlight into the room…

Which was completely empty. She had vanished into thin air. _Rubbish, that is not possible. Honestly…_

Watson pulled up beside me, panting from the dash, and either consciously or unconsciously edging closer to me with a slight shiver. "Where did she go?" he whispered, as if afraid the woman would hear him.

I scowled. _Blast it._ "I have no idea. Most likely there is a secret passage in one of these cases. Whatever – _who_ever – it was, it knew the castle's secrets far better than we."

Watson glanced round a bit uneasily, as if expecting another spectre to come flowing out of one of the walls and attack us.

"What about Alfie?" I asked absently, scrutinising the floor for any traces of the apparition – no footprints, no threads, nothing. _Confound it! Our first lead, and it truly does disappear without a trace…_

"I shoved him in the room with Lachlan. Scared Haight half to death, but I'm sure the boy explained things by now," he returned in a hushed tone, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow warily, even as mine were doing.

But there was no movement, no sound, no sign, nothing whatsoever. The spectral figure had vanished completely into thin air. Or rather, into whatever passage it had found that I knew nothing about.

"Watson. Was there a secret passage mentioned on those maps leading from this corridor?" I asked, taking a last look round for any trace at all of our nocturnal apparition.

"Not that I remember," he replied uneasily, sticking very close to me with a slight shudder. It was indeed freezing in here…I shook myself sternly. It was freezing because it was the dead of winter in this godforsaken country, not because of some otherworldly influence. _Drivel_.

"Come, Watson. There is no more to be learnt here," I growled, for it thoroughly angered me to have been beaten by a…for lack of a better word…_ghost_. And a female ghost, at that!

On the way back, we ran into Lehmann, clad in a still-immaculate black suit and carrying a candelabrum in his hand. Watson let out a small gasp and fumbled in his pocket – for his revolver, I supposed – as the butler loomed at us suddenly in the dark, and I tried for the sake of his pride to keep my laughter inside. My dear Watson – and he complained about Haight being a bit trigger-happy!

"_Meine Herren_, is there a problem? We could hear noises from downstairs," he asked stiffly.

"_Ich muß mich entschuldigen, Lehmann_. We shall not disturb you again," I said evasively, not wanting to tell the butler that we had supposedly seen the legend.

The man nodded solemnly and stalked off with his candlestick, the light bouncing with and around him until it melted into a black blanket down the corridor.

I heard Watson give a nervous little laugh beside me. "I say, he does fit the spirit of the house rather well, does he not?"

I snorted, then chuckled in some relief with him, feeling a bit of the tension leaving me at the amusement.

Alfie was nearly hysterical by the time we got back to our corridor, and it took the combined efforts of both my friend and the American to get him back to sleep once more, the feat taking nearly an hour to complete while I watched over Lachlan, who had groggily slept through the entire affair, Watson having given him a sleeping draught for the pain before the apparition had made its appearance.

Finally Watson stumbled wearily back into the room to replace me for the first watch of the night. I glanced a little dubiously at his exhausted features.

"Look, I can stay with him for your shift," I said absently, fumbling for a match and my pipe, "it is not as if I have a lack of thinking to do."

"You're getting some sleep first," he said sternly, "the medical affairs are my business and the case affairs are yours. And you will be of no good in either direction if you don't take care of yourself."

I knew better than to argue with that stubborn dogged attitude, and so after clapping his shoulder supportingly as I moved round him to the door I took myself off to bed, intending to only catch a nap and then come back and relieve him for a while before Haight was to take over for the last three hours of the night.

I stoked up the fire in my room with a shiver, for the temperature was rapidly dropping and snow was swirling past the windows in a white whirlwind. Then I smoked slowly for close to an hour, trying to make sense of the facts as we knew them.

We had a spirit, or an apparition at least, seen for the first time tonight by anyone but the woman and the odd overworked servant in the last two weeks. Why tonight, on the very night we had returned? There had been no sightings at all whilst we had been here, and the night we left there was one by the Lady Cecilia yet again (I had learnt this from the Count earlier), and then again tonight there was one.

If the 'ghosts' were connected to Lachlan's accident, then this person behind the apparitions was a fast mover indeed, to push the midshipman under a carriage and then dash back here that same evening just to pull a stunt like the one we had just witnessed.

But if they were not connected, then were we dealing with two totally separate mysteries? Were the similarities in Watson's near-accident and Lachlan's attack merely pure coincidence? Surely not…and why attack them anyhow? What was the criminal's game in trying to kill the two men, when obviously the castle was his first port of attack?

I sat there on my bed for the better part of an hour, pondering, thinking, twisting and reworking theory after theory in my mind, with not much success.

Finally I dozed off, still sitting upright against the headboard…and was plagued by such a horrible nightmare involving spectral beings in white aboard trains attacking me and Lachlan and Watson that I woke up in a cold sweat and trembling, still sitting upright in my bed.

Perhaps Watson was right, I should not smoke and think before going to bed this late, if I was to dream about something that horrible. I shook my head clear, getting up a bit unsteadily and gulping down a glass of water, trying to wash away the horrific images that lurked at the sides of my mind's vision. Now would not be the time to lose my nerve.

I glanced at my watch – only half-past ten. I could not have been asleep for more than twenty minutes. Honestly, this case. I sighed, turning down the gas, tossing another log on the fire, and crawling between the sheets for a few hours' sleep before I was to go relieve Watson at two tomorrow morning.

_**Watson**_

"Good morning, Doctor."

"Good morning, Haight," I nodded, stifling a yawn, for I had only gotten three hours' sleep.

Holmes had been supposed to relieve me at two but had slept soundly through the entire night apparently. I was not resentful, for the rest would do him good – heaven knew he got little enough of it on a case usually.

"How are you feeling this morning, Lachlan?" I asked, examining the sailor's bandaged ribs carefully. Good, the scrapes and cuts appeared to no longer be inflamed, even better looking than they had been late last night…or was it early morning, I could not remember clearly now…

"A few sheets to the wind, to be honest," the man growled, "you pumped me so full o' that morphine yesterday 'tis a wonder I can see straight this morning."

I smiled. "It's better than the pain, isn't it?"

"I dunno," he replied grouchily, and Haight smirked at him.

"Shut up and let the doctor finish, or we'll be late for breakfast."

"You look fine, Lachlan," I said at last, "as long as you stay in bed and stay warm, there is no reason why your recovery should be anything but normal."

The man's blue eyes glared at me.

I shrugged. "Your fever went down before Haight took over last night, else I never would have relinquished my watch. But it's liable to spike again if that abrasion gets infected or if you catch cold – you are staying under those blankets if I have to tie you down there!"

The sailor's reply was cut short by the arrival of Sherlock Holmes, fully dressed but with dark circles under his eyes. The latter caused me some worry, as he looked as if he had not slept at all.

"I must have slept past two, Watson, I apologise," he said curtly, "Lehmann just came to inform us the Count would like to see us before breakfast if you're ready."

I frowned but waited until we were alone in the hall before turning to the haggard detective. "Did you get any decent rest last night, Holmes?"

"I told you I _over_slept, Watson, so the obvious deduction would be in the affirmative."

"You don't look it," I replied, a little nettled at his attitude.

"Save your doctoring for the midshipman, there's a good chap? Ah, Count. _Guten Morgen_."

I swallowed my irritation at my companion and plastered a smile upon my face as we met the Count in the corridor outside the massive dining hall.

"_Guten Morgen_, Herr Holmes. How is your injured companion, Herr Doktor?"

"Resting comfortably, Count. I do thank you for allowing us to bring him here," I replied courteously.

"I should like to have a word with you gentlemen, if you please, in private. Come, we can use the conservatory here."

Holmes stalked after the nobleman, and after a prayer for patience and for Holmes's apparent black temper to be controlled, I followed. The Count shut the door behind us and then turned to my companion.

"The apparitional bride appeared again last night?" he asked without preamble.

Holmes nodded. "In our corridor, after ten. We pursued it to the bookcase-lined corridor near ours but it disappeared there."

The Count frowned darkly. "It also appeared in Cecilia's room last night, supposedly. I had hoped it was just a figment of her imagination but if you both saw it then perhaps it is not so. Honestly, Mr. Holmes, you simply must put all your powers to work immediately on this case – the apparition appeared the very night you left and then again last night!"

"I assure you, Count, I shall waste no time in tracking down whatever this ghost is supposed to be," Holmes replied frigidly.

"See that you do. Cecilia is terrified of something, either natural or supernatural, and I want this stopped by any means you have to."

"You have made your position abundantly clear, Count," my companion's voice was crackling with an icy edge, and I hoped he would stop there and not go further in his tactlessness, whether the Count was in his rights or not in what he said.

The nobleman gave a curt nod to both of us and then gestured us to follow him back to the dining hall.

"My cousin and his sister have come to stay for a few days, arriving for the small celebration on New Year's Eve," the man informed us as we entered, gesturing to a couple standing by the table. They looked up as we approached.

"Mr. Holmes, my cousin, Sir August König and his sister, Lady Claudia. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Doktor John Watson."

"_Es freut mich, ihre Bekanntschaft zu machen_," Holmes offered in German, and I echoed the words.

Both relatives smiled and greeted us amicably enough, for which I was devoutly grateful. I did not think I could stand yet more insufferable nobility on this case. The Count had wandered off to talk to his fiancée by the fire, leaving us with the new arrivals.

"_Ich habe viele ihrer Geschichten gelesen, Doktor,_" the lady said with a smile to me, turning a pair of rather pretty blue eyes in my direction.

I took a moment to process the very rapid German, and she smiled engagingly. "Rather early for translation, is it not? I have read your stories, Herr Doktor, and enjoyed them very much," she repeated in English.

"_Danke,_ Lady Claudia," I said ruefully, returning the smile, "I apologise for our not being here when you arrived yesterday but we were detained longer than we had planned in Vienna."

"From what Heinrich has told us, it seemed quite necessary, Doktor," the other nobleman spoke up for the first time.

Sir August König was a very tall – taller even than Holmes – well-built man, with an honest face and an extremely bored attitude which he did not bother to hide in his cousin's house. Apparently he enjoyed holidays to the extent as Holmes did, and in consequence the two of them seemed to be rather kindred spirits and were soon chatting amiably enough.

This unfortunately left me paired with the lady – who while she seemed kind and genteel enough, was quicker than was really ladylike to inform me that she had never married and had few friends among her brother's acquaintances and she did not object to marrying below her class. I began to edge warily away from an entire detailed life history, glancing helplessly at a thoroughly oblivious Sherlock Holmes, when I felt a hand tap my shoulder.

"I believe this belongs to you, Doctor."

I had never in my life felt so absolutely glad to hear an American voice, and from the wink he sent me I am afraid it was quite evident. Haight shoved a freshly-scrubbed Alfie in my direction and smirked outright.

"Erm –"

"Ooh, is the _Junge_ yours, Doktor?" the lady cooed, glancing at the lad, who was now grinning lopsidedly.

"Yep," Alfie instantly piped up wickedly.

I was horrified when the child beat me to speaking. I had the very dismaying feeling that the reporter had put him up to this…

"No!" I stammered, casting a helpless glance at Haight, who was smirking like a loon and starting to back away from the conversation. "No, he is _not _mine, I'm just…watching him this trip," I ended lamely, trying to think of a suitable explanation and failing miserably under that pretty blue stare.

"Oh, well done, Doctor," Haight's voice muttered in my ear.

"I'm going to shoot you, Haight," I hissed behind my hand, "if you don't get me out of this!"

The lad merely chuckled. "Suppose you introduce me?" he asked pertly.

I winced at the American's breach of etiquette, but the lady merely gave a tinkling laugh. I sighed…this was going to be a very long day, I could tell it already.

And it was a long day, far too long. Holmes was in an extraordinarily bad temper all the day, for what reason I did not know. Even Alfie was not stupid enough to talk to him when in such a mood, and Haight found out the hard way not to interrupt him when he had that particular look on his face.

He refused to even talk to me, merely snapping at me waspishly when I attempted to get him to eat something or at least take a nap; so I was more than glad to acquiesce when Renie offered to take the lad out riding later around the estate with Holmes and the Count. I remained behind with Lachlan, who by the time I got there was rather anxious to be out of bed despite a remaining slight fever.

I received nothing but a streak of colourful swearing (in Hindi, this time) for my trouble in keeping him abed, and the rest of the afternoon we spent in a somewhat bad temper all round the table.

I managed to elude the Lady Claudia over dinner tactfully enough, and returned for a night vigil over Lachlan. The temperature was dropping harshly, and I was a bit worried that his condition could worsen into pneumonia if he were not watched closely – not to mention that his occasional coughing was paining his ribs considerably; I kept the fire well-stoked to ward off the growing chill.

Alfie was more than happy to go with Haight to his room, for the young reporter had promised him a bedtime story about what he so romantically called the 'Wild, Wild West'.

The next two days passed in something of the same manner – Holmes was in a foul mood, the nobility were verging between annoying and smothering, and Alfie was beginning to grate on everyone save his new American friend and that rather forward Lady.

I had now gone three nights running without a regular block of sleep, for Lachlan's temperature fluctuated once in a while and occasionally he would cough badly enough that I would have to help him breathe; I found myself just napping there in the room on a chair or a couch. Oddly enough, Holmes again supposedly overslept every night when he was supposed to come and relieve me at my post, but I dared not comment on the fact in the mood he was in – I would survive, and he actually needed the rest more than I.

The ghost had not been seen by Holmes or myself since that first night, but according to Lady Cecilia it had appeared again in her chamber and according to Alfie, once in his bedroom. I was more inclined to put the latter down to Renie's last story of a ghost mining town somewhere in California, but the Count was thoroughly displeased by the recurring apparition and by default, then so was Holmes.

I had unintentionally drawn my friend's wrath upon myself that evening of the third day, much to my hurt and Lachlan's surprise and unease, for he had been on the bed and heard the entire escapade.

"Holmes, you look perfectly horrible, why are you not sleeping?" I had asked gently, for the circles under his eyes were so dark it appeared as if he had been punched squarely in the face.

"I _am_ sleeping, Doctor, so for heaven's sake stop that womanish fussing!" he snapped, flipping through a stack of papers in search of one elusive diagram.

"You don't look like it," I said, stung by his curt words and attitude, for it had been quite a while since he had behaved thus with me.

"How many times must I tell you to leave me and my health alone?" he growled, scribbling a note on one of the papers. "It's enough to drive a patient to distraction!"

"You just said you were _not_ my patient, so why should it bother you?" I demanded.

"You're exactly right, I am not your patient. For which I am thoroughly grateful, you would force me to insanity!"

I heard an intake of breath from Lachlan, but by then I was thoroughly nettled by his words; ill detective or no, I did not deserve to be talked to in that manner.

"I believe insanity would be an improvement upon your ill-mannered temperament as of now, Holmes!"

"You are hardly one to judge temperament! Poor manners is certainly preferable to being a cloyingly smothering parent!"

"If you were not so childish regarding your health, you would not _need_ a parent," I snapped.

He whirled upon me, a stack of papers in his hand, and his eyes gleaming with a grey anger.

"I am going to investigate the towers where the lady's legend supposedly originates," he said with a deathly calm.

"Fine," I snapped, feeling my eyes sting with anger. "I shall stay here, with a patient that at least has a bit of confidence in my abilities!"

"Good, I'll take _Haight_ with me then," Holmes shot over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.

I felt behind me for the chair and sat heavily, feeling the hurt washing over me as his words rang through my mind turn to shame as I realised I had lost my temper again. _That was well-handled, wasn't it?_

"Doctor."

I did not answer for a moment, blinking a few times before turning back to the rather uneasy figure on the bed.

"I apologise, Lachlan. I should not have done that with a third party in the room," I said with a sigh.

"Neither of you should've done it _at all,_" he said soberly. "And I don't like the fact that he's using Renie to get between the two of you, it isn't right."

I shook my head wordlessly.

"Doctor, I believe Mr. Holmes isn't the only one who needs some sleep. 'Tisn't as if I'm going to go anywhere, suppose you drop onto that couch there and get forty winks?"

"I can't," I said sadly, wishing to heaven I could have stopped my temper flaring.

_What was wrong with both of us?_


	15. Their Watery Ghosts

_Easily, with a few convulsive quirks, they give up their watery __ghosts__, like a mortal translated before his time to the thin air of heaven._

_- Henry David Thoreau_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

I let the door of Lachlan's room swing shut with considerable force - so blindly irate was I that when I found myself in the hall I stood for a moment trying to regain some of my control.

Why in heaven's name couldn't Watson just leave well enough alone? The man had to continually pry and nag as though I were not only two years younger than he, but a child too incompetent to tie its own shoelaces! How was it his affair if I slept or not, or even whether I ate?

For once I was following his blasted advice and trying to sleep, but whenever I closed my eyes I found myself plagued by unspeakable nightmares. As if there were not enough fanciful illusions in this castle to begin with.

I just needed to keep my head about me, and to be _left_ _alone_; without this infernal pestering I might actually be able to solve this blasted case which had revealed no real evidence as yet, nothing I could put to any deductive use at all.

I fumed for a moment more, trying without much success to drive the anger and frustration from my mind. Emotions would do nothing but cloud my mind.

_That…_said a quiet voice in my head..._and you have just mistreated your closest - your **only** - friend. _

I shook the notion from my head at once; guilt, whether it was deserved or not, would not help the case either.

Haight's room was just down the corridor and I strode purposefully toward it, knocking soundly on the door. There was no answer, and I pushed it open, poking my head in briefly to check to make certain that the young American was not asleep on his bed.

He was not, and I closed the door irritably again before going back up the hall and down the stairs to the main corridor.

I had an idea where Haight might be, and I was gratified to know that my deduction had been correct when I heard his distinct accent mixed in with the sound of female laughter.

The cacophony was coming from one of the sitting rooms and I entered to find Haight seated across from Cecilia and the count's cousin Claudia, both giggling at a remark just posed by the American. I must admit to my relief upon learning that the Count, his cousin Sir August, and the Strauss fellow had all gone to town for the evening.

Mueller stood nearby, keeping them well-stocked with drinks, and Alfie sat between the two ladies, his hands full of biscuits; though in truth he looked overly stuffed and thoroughly bored. The dog Ada sat at the edge of the sofa, eyeing the lad's treats with a greedy glint, but the lad was doing a rather decent job of ignoring the beast.

"Lady Cecilia, Lady Claudia," I said brusquely, "You must forgive me but I am afraid I am in need of Mr. Haight's assistance."

The ladies did not respond but continued to squeak and giggle, much to Haight's amusement, judging by his smirk. What in heaven's name had he been telling them?

I sighed impatiently. "Haight."

"All right, Holmes," he made to lever himself from the chair, "Alfie…"

"Oh, no, Mr. Haight." Claudia giggled, patting the Irregular's head. "We shall watch him for you."

Alfie's eyes grew wide at this pronouncement and he looked at Haight pleadingly.

But the American only grinned and got to his feet, setting aside his glass which Mueller promptly removed.

"Thank you, Mueller," Haight said, somewhat annoyed as he was unaccustomed to such fussing. He turned to me, sticking his hands in his pocket. "Where are we going, Holmes?"

"To look for a ghost, Mr. Haight, I grow tired of being plagued by apparitions. We are going to the towers where this blasted legend began."

"I see, to work then. Excuse me, ladies," Haight smiled and the ladies giggled yet again, poor Alfie seated miserably between them, looking as if he were either going to bolt or burst into tears.

"Come along, Haight." I said, beckoning and at long last he moved to join me.

Once the door was closed the American turned to me with yet more unwanted concern in his eyes.

"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Holmes? Perhaps…"

I glared at the lad and he turned quiet very quickly.

"Are you coming?"

His eyebrows rose, but he nodded. "I'd be happy to. In fact I'm eager to, you forget that I've spent the last few months with Lachlan and his ghost stories. I'm ready for any beastie you can throw at me." He straightened his jacket and grinned again.

I sighed, "Do you always wear a gun holster, Mr. Haight? Isn't it a bit…what is the colonial term…_cowboy_?"

He laughed. "Not shoulder holsters. Cowboys wear the guns on their belts. There was this one fella everyone knew of as a boy out west…man by the name of Earp…"

"I am really not in the mood for _Wild West _stories, Mr. Haight, if you could just save those for Alfie instead. Could we concentrate on the matter at hand?"

"Right you are, Mr. Holmes." he said, still unperturbed by my mood, which was rather a good thing since I felt I would need help but was still in no mood to deal with easily offended people.

After a short walk in silence we began to near the towers, and Haight spoke again.

"Why exactly are we going to the towers, Holmes? I thought you didn't take stock in ghostly tales."

"I do not. But two of the maids claim to have seen our apparition there, and one of them just the night we left. As it is the only place other than the Lady Cecilia's bedroom and our corridor that has been favoured by an appearance, and because that is supposedly where the legend began, I believe there is a passage of some that is not marked on the maps I traced our first few days here."

"Ah I see," the reporter said, lengthening his stride to match mine as I eagerly climbed the first few steps. "And since the apparition has been appearing lately anyhow you're guessing we might just see some indication of it here tonight?"

"I am hoping so, yes," I said, as we reached the level of the tower rooms, a set of sparsely decorated chambers that were still very much a part of the castle even if they were somewhat out of the way. There could easily be some passage here, one which I intended to find. And then wait nearby, for the apparition to show, and I would continue to do so every night from now on until it did.

Haight looked around at the dim rooms and shivered slightly, drawing his jacket closer round him.

"And just how long do you intend to stay here?"

"Until we reach the bottom of this, Mr. Haight, now if you would be so kind." I handed him my dark lantern which I had been carrying and struck a match to light it.

He took it and aptly flipped the cover over the light when I had done, understanding my intentions.

"So it's a stakeout, is it? Where are we going to sit and wait for this white lady to appear?"

"There are four rooms…It will be to our advantage to wait in one of the more central rooms…that way we can see where she emerges from before she begins her descent of the stairs – that is where the maid saw her last. It is a good location visible from the main stairs, should anyone be _ascending_."

"Right." The young fellow selected a corner and seated himself, becoming quite invisible in the darkness and against the dark stone.

I selected a small alcove just beside him, thankful that he was not arguing, for I was not in the mood…No matter what anyone said of Americans' lack of tact they could be very businesslike when it came down to it.

Nor, it seemed, were they very apt to complaining, at least not the calibre that Haight hailed from, for we sat for nearly an hour in the chill air and he said nothing, only shivering occasionally.

It had been nearly an hour in the darkness however when he finally broke the silence, shifting and sniffing slightly, his light, tenor voice floating out of the darkness.

"Did the Doctor say how Lachlan was, when you went up there to ask him to go with you?"

I drew in my breath sharply and looked at the American, though I could see nothing but his outline.

"What?"

"It's obvious that you two are on edge with each other, since I'm _here_ and not with Lachlan in his place. I just…wondered whether he had time to tell you about our seaman's condition before you stormed out of the room."

I said nothing, but apparently he took that as confirmation for he went on.

"For a man who claims to have no emotion, Mr. Holmes, you seem to have quite a few feelings roiling around inside you, and they'll find a way of showing themselves no matter how you try to hide it. You just show it differently is all."

"I don't see how it is any of your business." I found myself snapping before I could repress it. Confound those outspoken, brash Americans!

Haight sighed and shifted again. "Well, in as far as Dr. Watson is taking care of Lachlan, then it is very much my business. His being run into the ground will do nothing to help our midshipman, and your snapping at him certainly won't help either."

Another moment of silence stretched in the darkness, and though it was not a tense silence, it was tangible, as though there were things left unsaid.

Still I said nothing, for I was not accustomed to bearing my soul in casual conversation to Watson himself…or even Mycroft, let alone a young upstart American that I had known only a short while.

Oddly enough, Haight seemed to think that my participation was not necessary for he spoke again without waiting for an answer.

"They can be awful pests, friends…can't they? I hadn't been traveling with Lachlan a whole week before we got into a bit of trouble and he started watching me like a hawk; I couldn't have stubbed my toe without his knowing about it. I don't think I've ever been more annoyed my whole life."

He laughed, though the sound was interrupted by a slight shiver.

"In fact, I sometimes wonder how I can stand it. My being a reporter, I'm meant to be the annoying one, not the other way around. I never thought I'd be pestered by someone when it's my profession to pester others. "

I could make him out, turning his head to look at me, and there was no glint of grinning teeth, he was speaking in deadly earnest. Which bothered me more than I should like to admit even to myself.

"But then…that's rather the point, isn't it? That's how you tell a good friend from the rest of the fakers. They won't leave you alone, won't let you disappear among your own vices or foolish choices. They know your faults and they stick with you even when you've been in the wrong. It's rather their right to pester, 'cause a good friend gets dragged down with you…so they try to keep you afloat as much for their own sake as for yours."

He chuckled slightly, as though he himself had only just come to this conclusion and for some reason found it very humorous.

"Friendship has got to be one of the worst paradoxes we're stricken with, eh?"

Another silence…this one seeming to stretch for a little too long, so I added a comment of my own.

"Quite. It seems you have been around Lachlan for too long, Haight…you're beginning to philosophize."

The American snorted. "Oh good grief, I am, aren't I? I suppose his being out of action may allow me to clear my head before he fills it again."

I could not help noticing that there was a tremor of emotion underlying Haight's rather flippant speech. He was worried about Lachlan, despite his bravado.

"He was fine, when I went into his room." I found myself saying in a quiet voice. "He was awake, he seemed comfortable…he'll be all right, Haight."

He nodded, and I could detect the smile in his face as he spoke.

"Especially with the good Doctor watching after him?"

I felt another pang of guilt which I promptly banished. I had no time for such things.

"Yes…especially then."

We sat for a while longer in the darkness after the one-sided conversation, and the temperature had dropped to such a degree that I was considering calling it off until another night when we would be better prepared with thicker clothing. I should have thought of this…a further proof of how distracting emotions could be.

I turned to Haight to suggest that he open the dark lantern…and then I realized that I could make him out more clearly than before…there was something illuminating the room.

I pushed myself away from the wall abruptly and Haight straightened quickly.

"Son of a gun," he murmured, gazing down at the mist that had seemingly risen out of nowhere and which glowed with a most distinctive light.

"Shh!" I motioned him to silence, reaching down for the lantern myself, taking hold of the cover to flip it open.

Haight got quickly to his feet as the mist rose to cover his knees and part of his chest…it was almost up to our knees standing.

"Where did it come from?" Haight asked, his voice on edge, unnerved by it despite the light of reason we both held. Reason seems much less persuasive in dark, chill corridors at night.

"I can't tell." I growled, peering around at it. "There must be some sort of draft though…for it to drift in so quickly."

Haight moved closer to me, his hands out and on the balls of his feet, as though he were deciding whether to pursue the matter or bolt from the rooms.

I could not blame him, for the discolored mist glowing with the dim light had an eerie effect, and I found myself shivering at the sight of it, curling along the dark, rough floor, spreading out to curl and reach around our feet and the legs of the few pieces of furniture in the room.

Wait…_spreading_!

"Where is it thinnest?" I asked. "Can you see?"

Haight glared about him at the floor, which was almost completely covered, then with an urgent whisper he pointed.

"There."

I looked to the corner that appeared to be farthest from the rooms…where the fog was only just beginning to spread.

"Good man. Come on."

I headed in the direction opposite it, towards the door, and Haight followed, his pale face weirdly reflected in the unusual greenish glowing light, his eyes disconcertingly dark. The fog seemed to curl up and away from our legs as we moved, as though we were wading through a pool rather than a mist.

We entered the first room and I stood in its entrance, looking out over it, trying to spot some inconsistency of the fog, but there appeared to nothing.

"Do you feel anything?" I whispered, "Some draft…any movement in the air."

Haight, who was standing at my shoulder cocked his head.

"No, nothing. Is this mist irregular for the apparition?"

"I have never seen it before…it was not accompanying our ghost of previous."

Haight looked grim and met my gaze with his own wide eyes.

"Perhaps it's a new ghost then."

I turned from him, still trying to discern the origin of the cursed fog…but the more moments that passed the less I could see, it had become thick and consistent, disturbed only by our own movements.

"Check along the walls," I whispered. "Anywhere that it might have come out."

Haight nodded and moved to a corner to the left to begin. I went to the right and slowly worked my way round…plunging my hands into the mist and feeling at the rough stone, feeling for any sort of movement of air of any kind. I could not repress a shiver as my hands disappeared completely from my sight, not only because it was unnerving but also it was cold…the mist was ice-cold.

For a few moments we searched in silence…an eerie silence filled with a thick tension…as though the both of us were waiting for something to happen, our ears cocked for any sound and our eyes open to any movement.

"Mr. Holmes!"

I jumped as my name echoed through the otherwise silent chamber, the hairs leaping to stand straight up on the back of my neck and on my arms.

I turned to see Haight facing me, his grim face even grimmer now…but at the same time there was a rather fascinated look in his eyes.

What was he on about?

He grinned without humour and raised his hand further out of the mist so that I could see.

At once I found my attention locked by the phenomenon that had been his hand. For not only was his hand, but also a great deal of his sleeve, were _glowing_. I raised my own hands from the cloud surrounding me, and observed the same occurrence...of course!

His grin widened when I again raised my gaze to look at him…and there was a gleam of excitement in his eyes.

"Phosphorus." he said simply.

Precisely! That could only be it, the mist's unnatural weird glow was from added phosphorus, which had transferred itself to Haight's sleeve.

It was a proof of how distracted I had been that only then did my mind snap itself out of that eerie chill. Phosphorus, naturally. A very scientific explanation…I really must regain my nerves. And with this revelation some nerve returned to us and I at once turned to my usual train of thought while examining a crime scene. What else…how was the fog itself created?

We were not to find out that night though, for at that moment there was a sudden violent influx of wind in the rooms…I caught a hint of some grating, almost screeching, noise before an air current covered it with a distinctive roar.

I gasped as it ripped through me, for it was freezing cold and frigid enough that my ears and other parts of my face were instantly numbed.

The slight light of the mist was dispelled as the air in the room was disturbed and mixed about, leaving us in sudden freezing darkness.

My eyes watered so that even if I could have kept the open they would have watered and blurred too much to see anything.

And then…just as quickly as the wind had come it was gone, cut off almost at once.

The air was still frigid but it no longer moved, we were alone again…in the darkness.

I opened my eyes to the same sort of darkness seeing that the mist had been cleared completely by the air…as well it should have.

I impulsively wrapped my arms around my chest, clutching them for warmth…and I realized rather belatedly that I was shivering violently.

So was Haight, judging by the chattering of his teeth.

"Mr. H-Holmes?"

I looked in his direction, still somewhat dazed and made out him out.

"The L-lantern."

Right, it was still clutched in my hand, though of course it had gone out with the wind that had ripped through the room.

I knelt on the floor, setting it in front of me and after a few fumbled tries with numb fingers I was able to light it.

A blessedly warm and familiar glow lit the room and I looked up to see Haight, also hugging himself as I had been, shivering almost violently in his jacket.

I saw also…that the room was completely bare and unchanged…and that any sign of the mist or the phosphorus was completely gone.

"Did you see it?" I growled softly, "Could you tell where it came from?"

Haight shook his head.

I peered about at the walls…there had to be some sort of passage.

"Mr. Holmes..."

Haight approached cautiously.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm frozen stiff, and the light is too dim to make out any secret passageways tonight….we'll have to try tomorrow when there is better light…and you can bet whoever's behind this is long gone anyway."

I gritted my teeth - he was right of course, but it was so infuriating…to have so close an encounter only to have them slip past unnoticed.

Haight frowned upon seeing my hesitation.

"And there are Watson and Lachlan to consider. I'm going to go fetch Alfie and then spell the Doctor…you may do as you like."

He turned swiftly for the exit, shaky and pale, his arms still wrapped around himself.

I sighed heavily. It was evident that the incident had unnerved him…and truth be told, it had unnerved me as well. I did not enjoy the feeling of being slow and clumsy, as I had been tonight.

And better to think in a warm room with my pipe rather than a frigid tower anyhow…on the morrow we would get our maps and investigate the room from top to bottom.

I clenched the lantern tightly and followed the American, fervently hoping that we would not see any more ghosts that night, physical or otherwise.


	16. The Apparition by Which I Am Haunted

_When people talk of Ghosts I don't mention the Apparition by which I am __haunted__, the Phantom that shadows me about the streets, the image or spectre, so familiar, so like myself, which lurks in the plate glass of shop-windows, or leaps out of mirrors__._

_- Logan Pearsall Smith_

* * *

_**Watson**_

I finished my examination and began to re-wrap the gauze round the sailor's ribcage tautly.

"Well?" he growled.

"It appears you have no infection, you no longer have a fever, and you are healing nicely – amazing how far the healing process can progress if I have a patient who will actually obey my orders," I said dryly.

Lachlan grinned. "Can I get up now?"

"If you still feel well in the morning, then I believe you can go down to breakfast. But that is all – if you move the wrong way those ribs could undo all the healing that has been done. Ordinarily I would make you stay in bed for at least another week, but I have no desire for Alfie to overhear any _more_ of that choice language of yours if I were to attempt that," I replied with a matching grin, though I was thoroughly exhausted.

I put away my stethoscope and my gauze, rubbing a hand across my eyes – I really needed to get a good solid block of sleep. A lack of decent sleep has always made my temper rather short, and now I was well on my way to a terrible headache as a result of the fact as well.

Renie Haight walked in, Alfie in tow, as I snapped my bag shut. Both of them were looking rather out-of-sorts, and the former slightly shaken, though he edged around giving me details. I gathered that something had happened while he was with Holmes and he had no desire to talk about it, so I dropped the matter – I was too tired to care anyway.

"Oi, Doctor! Mr. 'Olmes is in a roight proper temper, 'e is," Alfie grumbled, latching onto me for comfort.

"He's tired, Alfie," I murmured.

"Not half as tired as you are, Doctor," Haight spoke up, sharing a long glance with Lachlan, "you should go to bed for about…ohh, maybe forty-eight hours?"

I laughed, picking up my bag with one hand and taking Alfie's with the other.

"Well, he should be fine as long as he stays there until morning," I said tiredly, "so if you'll be here to watch him…"

"Get the blazes out of here, Doctor!" Lachlan snapped with more vigour than I had seen yet from the injured man.

Alfie's eyes bugged at the sight of the man nearly yelling at me, and more oddly my obediently making a retreat.

"Bloimey, Doctor. Yew look awf'l," he said helpfully as I tucked him in for the night.

I sighed. "Thank you very much, young man."

I received a lopsided grin.

"Now, what story are you wanting from me tonight?"

"Oi don' wan' one, Doctor."

I raised my eyebrows – that was a first. But the lad grinned up at me and just snuggled down in the blankets.

"Yew look too tired, oi don' need one."

"Are you certain?" I was surprised, and very touched, by the lad's perceptive caring.

"Oi'm sure."

"Then thank you," I sighed with some relief. "Come and get me if you need anything in the night, Alfie."

"Or if'n oi see a ghost or somethin'?"

"Heavens, I hope not," I muttered, turning down the gas amidst the lad's impish chuckle – it appeared he was more excited now than frightened by the possibility of an apparition visiting us.

I stumbled down the hall toward my room, stopping for a moment outside Holmes's. I raised my hand to knock, but then thought better of it - I should only make things worse, with my temper and patience on a short fuse due to this confounded headache and lack of sleep. I kept on to my room, shivering against the chill in the hallway, wrapping round me like a set of icy fingers.

It could not have been very many hours later when I was awakened by a small hand poking me hesitantly. Had the situation not been potentially serious, I would have laughed at the boy's somewhat wary face, for he knew as well as Holmes how irritable I could be when awakened abruptly.

"Doctor?"

I blinked, kneading my eyes to adjust to the snowy moonlight that filtered in through my window. Alfie was in his pyjamas – I made a mental note to tell him that it was not appropriate to leave one's room without a dressing-gown – and his face was rather pale under the freckles. But he was not frantic, so surely no ghost had appeared…

"What – what's the matter?" I asked groggily, sitting up and rubbing my eyes again, trying to focus my bleary mind.

"It's Mr. 'Olmes, Doctor," the lad whispered, clambering up on the bed beside me earnestly.

I rubbed my temples and then shook myself. "What about him?"

"Oi think 'e's sick," the lad said plaintively.

"Sick? How so?" I got up and fumbled into my slippers and dressing gown, trying to remember where I had tossed my bag upon collapsing earlier.

"Oi got up ta get a drink from th' bathroom, an' when oi walked past 'is door 'e was cryin' out loike someone was in there wit' him," Alfie said worriedly, his eyes big as saucers, "an' – an' so oi opened th' door a crack, an' 'e was on th' bed, tossin' and moanin' loike someone was 'urtin' 'im, Doctor!"

I sighed – nightmares, no doubt. "He was probably just having a bad dream, Alfie, that doesn't mean he's ill," I said soothingly.

"But 'e was callin' for yew, Doctor," the lad said sadly.

I frowned.

"But – but then 'e oll of a sudden shoots up outa bed loike someone was chasin' 'im, Doctor, an' – an' then – "

Ah, there was my bag. "And then what?"

Alfie gulped, turned a worried face to mine. "'E got sick."

Dear heavens. Only a few times before had I had a dream vividly horrible enough to make me physically ill – and every time I had, I could remember no worse feeling in the world than that uncontrollable terrified sickness.

"Alfie, I want you to go back to bed."

"But oi don' wanna –"

"Then go to Mr. Haight and tell him I asked if you could sleep on the couch in there," I said, sternly pulling him out with me into the hallway, "I shall take care of Mr. Holmes, don't worry."

Alfie looked dubiously at me but set off toward Lachlan's room while I made my way down the hall to Holmes's.

I silently cracked open the door and stepped in, to see the detective kneeling on the stone floor beside the washbasin, which he had hastily retrieved from its stand and made use of in the process of losing what tiny bit of food he had consumed that day.

He was shaking violently, and not just from sickness either. I knew the feeling well – more than once after my Afghan experiences and a few occasions after Reichenbach I had had the same thing happen – one literally wished to just die right there on the floor after such a nightmare. It was no ordinary nausea or illness; more like a form of burning physical and emotional agony, far worse than whatever had actually caused the feeling.

I knelt beside my quivering friend as he shook violently and began to heave once again, laying a steadying hand on his back and bracing his shoulders as he shook, not saying anything.

When he did not flinch or pull away – rather, leaned into the touch as if needing something tangible close to him, I moved my arm gently round his shoulders and felt him stiffen and then go limp, burying his face in his trembling hands, his breathing ragged and far too fast. All this time he had not even glanced up at me.

For a moment he just knelt there on the floor, quaking, trying desperately to regain his shattered composure – proof of how distrait he really was in that he did not care that I was seeing it crumple. Then finally he took a shuddering breath and fumbled to grip my arm.

"Watson?"

The whisper was laced with a controlled verging panic, as if he were willing it desperately to be true.

"I'm right here, Holmes. Just take a deep breath, old man. Steady now, it will pass." I willed my voice to be calm and devoid of pity – for he would have found that abhorrent – merely full of unspoken sympathy.

"Th-thank God," I barely heard the breathed response, so low was it. "Are you all right?"

What? Why was he worried about…no matter, I had to get him to calm down, this was not the time for an analysis of what he was saying.

"I'm fine, my dear fellow. You need to open your eyes now," I replied softly.

He shivered, a long shuddering motion, and I realised the hand clenched on my arm was ice-cold. His fire had apparently burnt itself out, the room and stone floor were frigid, and he was drenched in a cold sweat.

"You're freezing, Holmes," I said quietly, covering his icy fingers with my hand, "we need to get you warm, all right?"

Finally, finally he opened his eyes, raised his head to look at me, and I shall never be able to forget the absolutely haunted look in his eyes – a wild, terrified near-panic – before the mask he normally wore nearly (but not quite) slipped back over his face. He calmed slightly upon actually seeing me, but refused to let go my arm until I moved to get up, reaching for his dressing-gown and handing it to him.

"Come, we'll take you to Alfie's room, the fire is still lit in there and he's with Haight," I said softly, pulling a few blankets off the bed.

Holmes mechanically tied the belt of the dressing-gown, his eyes still roaming nervously about him as if afraid of something attacking us where we stood. What in the world could have affected his iron nature so deeply to shake the very foundations of his soul?

I took his arm as we stepped into the hall but he shook me off, no doubt embarrassed at having been seen in such an undignified and uncontrolled position, though it was not as if he could help it.

But when the door had shut behind us in Alfie's warm room, he gave a long shudder and the colour drained further from his face, taking on the appearance as if he were either going to faint or be ill again. I hastily pushed him onto the couch in front of Alfie's fireplace and wrapped a blanket round his shoulders and another round his legs, and then threw two more logs on the fire.

All this time he had said not a word since asking me if I were all right, and the silence worried me almost more than whatever it could have been to shake him so. I went back to my room to grab my bag, and he had not moved an inch from where I had left him when I returned. I poured a glass of water for him and mixed a powder into it.

"Drink this," I directed sternly, "there's powdered ginger in it, it will help your stomach settle."

He took the glass and drained it without a word, yet another indication of how poorly he really must have been feeling.

His hand tremoured as he started to hand the glass back, and I had to catch it before it hit the floor as it slipped from his fingers.

"Thank you," he said hollowly, shivering again and huddling up in the blanket round his shoulders.

I noticed that his haunted eyes had not left me ever since I had come back into the room, which was odd. After refilling the glass and setting it beside him on the floor, I sat on the other end of the couch and turned slightly to face him.

"All right," I said in the tone I used when wheedling information out of timid patients. "Do you want to tell me why you didn't inform me before now that you were having nightmares every night?"

He jumped like a guilty child, the lurking fear in his eyes fading into a more quizzical glare.

"Don't look at me like that," I said with a slight smile, "I've not lived with you for so long without learning _something_ about deduction."

He swallowed, relaxed slightly and leaned back against the couch. "I owe you an apology, Watson."

"For having nightmares?" I asked incredulously.

"No," he whispered with no trace of a smile, "for letting you run yourself into the ground for the last three days. I have been so…self-centred, that I neglected more important matters elsewhere. I am truly sorry, my dear fellow. And I took my frustration with myself out on you this evening, and I do apologise for that."

I shrugged. "I was rude, and you were quite right – I do tend to fuss at you as if you were Alfie's age, and for that I apologise as well."

He gave me a sickly version of his normal smile but said nothing, and I was more than slightly disturbed at the observance that his composure was all but nonexistent – so unlike him, and such a rare occurrence, that it put us both on edge. Something was desperately wrong with him.

"Now that we've gotten that out of the way," I went on slowly, "you need to tell me what has been plaguing you."

"No."

"Holmes, did you not hear what I told that reporter a few days ago? This obviously is not healthy – I cannot help you if you withdraw from the issue," I said earnestly, pleading with him to not shut me out.

He averted his gaze for the first time since I had returned to the room, and I moved a bit closer to him on the settee.

"Holmes. There's something else in this besides a mere set of nightmares – I know you too well to not be able to tell that. Now what is it, old chap?"

He shivered, pulling the blanket closer round him, and then looked back at me, his eyes filled with a ghostly pain.

"Watson, do you think I am capable of losing my mind?" he asked suddenly and without preamble.

I blinked, but he was in dead earnest apparently. "No, I do not. Why?"

"Because – I think I am going mad," he whispered, such misery evident in his tone that it caused a knot of tension to stick in my throat.

"Rubbish. You are the most logical man I know. Such talk is mere nonsense, Holmes," I said firmly.

"No," was the murmured, misery-laden response.

I sighed, this was going to take quite a while. "Holmes. Why do you think you could possibly be going mad?"

"How can I not think so?" he cried suddenly, "you don't know – I – "

"I don't know what?" I asked the question with infinite gentleness, for I knew I was treading on very thin ice.

"You don't know what I've seen," he whispered, glancing up at me, "I'm seeing such visions, Watson… I suppose they are just nightmares, but…not like any I have ever had before. Every time I close my eyes, it's something else, something…horrible…" his voice trailed off in a miserable sigh. "I cannot fathom what is wrong with me, but my mind is…"

"The mind is a terrible instrument when it creates such things," I said softly, "especially one as vivid as yours. You are no different than other men, Holmes, much as you would like us all to believe otherwise. You are still human, and as such none of us can control our sleeping hours and what happens therein."

"But – why am I seeing _this_, and every night too?" he whispered, getting up to pace, the afghan coiled round his legs falling in a twisted mess to the floor. "Surely no sane man would be able to cogitate what I have seen the last four nights. Every night, Watson! That is not the normal state of affairs even for an active imagination like mine!"

He stopped by the window, looking out over the glittering snowy expanse, and I arose and moved beside him.

"What exactly are you seeing, Holmes?" I asked calmly, steadily.

He rested his head on the cold glass for a long moment...then to my surprise, he actually answered, as if really wanting to tell someone what was haunting his dreams.

"The first night, the first one was at first just a typical odd dream. White-garbed figures pushing us under trains before I snapped awake, to put it comically." He cracked a slight twitching smile before his face fell miserably once again. "Then it went progressively from bad to worse."

I was going to have to pry this from him, no doubt, and great finesse was to be used.

"Go on, old chap. It is nothing to be ashamed of, please tell me."

He took a deep breath, looked out over the snowy courtyard. "Then again that first night, Watson, a childhood incident. Trivial probably, but still…" he trailed off, then glanced at my patiently waiting face and went on. "Mycroft had fallen through a frozen river when we were children; naturally I was far too slight of build to be capable of pulling him out and he almost drowned before I got help. Then he caught a bad cold and was ill for several days with a high fever," he said quietly.

He had never spoken before to me about much of his past, so I dared not say anything for fear he would stop now.

"The second night was…an incident from my college days. I cannot tell you what, Watson," he said softly, his eyes taking on a glint I had not seen before.

"Very well," I said softly.

"Last night, it was…those cursed Falls," he shuddered, wrapping the blanket round him more closely. "Moriarty – I could see him, Watson, see him as clearly as I see you now. And…"

"And what?" I asked quietly.

"And this time…this time I was frightened, Watson, I was so scared I could physically feel it," he said intensely, turning to look at me with a pleading glance as if begging me to tell him he was not going mad, "I was never afraid of the man, Watson. I loathed, despised him with every fibre of my being, but at the same time respected him – we were both the best of our professions, and I admired him even. I _never_ feared him. But I did last night, in that…dream. I, Sherlock Holmes, afraid of a dead man."

He gave a nervous shuddering laugh that held no mirth whatsoever and clenched both fists.

How I wished he would drop that distant façade, for I wanted nothing more than to put my arm around him and offer what physical comfort I could – as I had done for many hurting patients. But this was not a patient, this was Sherlock Holmes. And as such I could not, not right now anyway.

"But tonight…tonight was the worst," he whispered, leaning his head on the window once again. His hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away almost viciously.

"Yes?" I murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder at last. He flinched but did not pull away, so I left it there. "Go on."

He hesitated for a long moment, then lifted his head to look once more out of the window, avoiding my gaze entirely. "It was about the _Friesland_," he whispered. "I – I was too late."

"With the cure for Smith's disease, you mean?" I asked softly.

"No," he said, his voice shaking as much as the hands he clenched on the windowsill, "when…when you went overboard."

My heart sank at the statement, for now I understood his first words to me just now. How vivid had the vision been, to so affect him in that horrible manner?

"Watson, have you ever _seen_ what a man looks like who has died by drowning?" he suddenly gasped, his voice cracking on the brittle edge of losing his composure, the colour seeping from his face as he obviously was remembering what he had seen. "It…it was _horrible_…what kind of man am I, Watson, to be able to construct such horrendous visions in my mind…_why am I creating these things_?"

The ice in his voice finally broke on the last plea, and I threw my hesitation to the wind and did what I would have done with Alfie or anyone else in that situation. I tugged gently on his shaking arm and pulled him closer to me in a strong, steadying embrace.

To my slight surprise, he never even resisted, but merely gave a kind of choking sigh and went almost limp against me, just standing there trembling as I somewhat awkwardly patted his shoulder, wishing I knew what to say that would be helpful and not insulting to his shattered pride.

"Holmes. Your mind has had absolutely nothing to work with lately – there is no data, nothing concrete in this case. And I know that you did not bring your cocaine with you – I checked before we left Baker Street. In consequence, your unstimulated imagination has become overactive and resulted in this. You are most definitely _not_ going mad."

A shudder ran through his thin frame, transferring the chill to me. "But is it normal for this to happen every night?" I heard his muffled voice from my shoulder.

"No, I admit it is not. But unless you are ill, it's probably just an overactive imagination."

"But they were so very real...I am behaving rather foolishly, am I not?" he gasped, taking a shuddering breath.

"Good heavens, no," I snapped almost angrily, "there is nothing foolish about this sort of thing, Holmes. Things out of one's control are not weaknesses, they are merely a part of life."

"Thank you." The whisper was so faint I nearly had to hold my breath to hear it, but after another few moments his trembling began to abate and he finally took a deep breath.

"I'm so sorry, my dear fellow," I sighed at last, wishing to heaven he had been spared those horrible visions, especially that last.

He cleared his throat uneasily, and so I stepped back but kept a firm hold on his shoulders. He looked into my eyes and then dropped his gaze, a faint flush coming into his face.

"You always know what to do to make others feel better, don't you, my friend?" he said with a very faint smile.

I snorted. "I'm a doctor, Holmes. I would make a rather pitiful physician if I did not at least have _some_ ability in that respect."

The lines in his haggard face smoothed out as he offered me a real smile this time – for the first time in four days. I pointed a stern finger a few inches from his long nose.

"Do you remember seven years ago, Holmes, when we were chasing down the men that killed my brother? You gave me support and told me on the train that you refused to let me handle the ghosts of my past alone. Do not be ashamed to accept the same favour in return – it is only fair."

He humphed and glared at me, but the ghosts were beginning to leave his eyes. "Well, I suppose that's logical. Turnabout is fair play and all that."

I gave a small sigh of relief. "Good man. Now, let us sit for a while and talk of something a bit less traumatic, and more of _this_ world, eh?"

"You need sleep, Watson," he remonstrated as I pushed him back toward the couch, "you look perfectly horrible, and a good part of that is my fault."

"Nonsense. Just do not take it personally if I drop off in the midst of one of your lectures," I returned with a grin, seating myself comfortably beside him as he picked up the glass from the floor and drained it slowly. "Now. What did you discover in the tower this evening?"


	17. More Agreeable About It

_Hoorah! After 48 hours of wonkiness (my final inbox count was 148), the site is finally sending out alerts again. So if you're reading this, you might have missed the last two chapters. Just to let you know. :)_

* * *

_Capt. Gregg, if you insist on haunting me, you might at least be more agreeable about it._

_- Philip Dunne (1908–1992), U.S. screenwriter_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

I woke when a sharply glittering beam of light shone straight into my face, reflecting from a fresh snowfall. For a moment my muddled mind wondered why in the world I still felt so drained after a night's slumber; then I remembered what had disturbed said slumber…it all seemed so distant, so unearthly, that for a moment I thought I had perhaps dreamt the entire affair.

But when I tried to move my arm from the back of the settee and found it pinned by something…some_one_, the events came back with a clarity that dispelled any doubts I had about the matter. What a horrible few nights…I was indeed lucky that the last few hours had been dream-free, thank heaven.

I blushed to think of how much my control had slipped last night – I could not remember the last time I was so completely out of tune with my composure; it had been almost unreal. Everything always was, when woken up in that manner, in the middle of the night and ill. My stomach still turned over at the remembrance of that horrible vision of that water-soaked deck of the _Friesland_…

I firmly pushed the sight out of my mind – it was over, it was not real, and there was work to be done today. I glanced over at Watson, who had fallen over asleep against me last night after gallantly trying to stay awake to discuss theories for close to two hours before giving up the battle, and wondered absently if he would fall over were I to get up now.

I was saved from having to find a way to prop him up (and lever him off my arm) by the door flying open and a ultra-hyper Irregular bouncing into the room – with far more energy than anyone should have at that hour of the morning.

"Alfie!" I hissed in dismay, as Watson jerked awake at the banging of the door, bolting upright with a gasp and reaching automatically for his pocket. Lucky for both of us and Alfie, he did not make a habit of putting his revolver into his dressing gown.

"What the – ohhh," he moaned, seeing the penitent lad cowering behind the arm of the settee. He slumped backward and closed his eyes again, but this time I had gotten my arm out of the way first.

"Alfie, for heaven's sake!"

"Well 'ow was oi ta know yew two'd be in 'ere?!" the irate child squawked as I rose and stretched painfully, "Mr. Renie tol' me ta go change for breakfast, an' 'ere yew gents is takin' over th' 'ole bleedin' place –"

"Alfie!"

"Sorry," the lad said softly, glancing at Watson, "oi didn' mean ta wake 'im up."

"I am not so sure you did, actually," I replied in some amusement, for my dear friend's expression had not changed a bit and his breathing was once more rhythmic and heavy, well on its way to soft snoring. Honestly, if the man could sleep through some of my more painful violin solos, I supposed he could sleep through a hyperactive child's enthusiasm.

"'E needed it," the lad whispered, digging through a drawer for a shirt. I gave him a pointed glare when he pulled out an obviously dingy one, and he scowled and shoved it to the back, retrieving a clean one this time round.

"Yes, indeed. Now go wash up, we only have a half-hour before breakfast," I said softly, giving the child a push out the door, washrag in hand. Then I turned back to my friend.

I should dearly have liked for him to get some more sleep, heaven knew he needed it…but he would be thoroughly displeased if I let him do so and miss both breakfast and the following investigation. I made a mental note to have him try to nap this afternoon, and then took my life in my hands and shook his shoulder gently.

"Watson. Wake up, old chap. We only have a half hour before breakfast, and you don't want to keep the Lady Claudia waiting, now do you?"

"If you so much as _mention_ that woman again I shall shoot you where you stand, do you hear me, Holmes?"

I jumped, sufficiently surprised that he was actually awake, and he sat up with a long laugh at my startled expression. And I suddenly realised – it had been days since I had heard him laugh like that, even seen a smile. Yet another thing I was responsible for causing with my black mood. I should make a conscious effort today to be amiable.

"Half an hour, you said?" he asked, covering a yawn and standing a bit stiffly, wincing and rubbing his bad leg.

"Yes. You all right?"

"Yes, yes. Just this blasted chill. Did you sleep?"

I nodded gratefully. "Several hours, I should think. Thank you."

He nodded sleepily and stumbled in the general direction of the door, nearly missing it when he closed his eyes to yawn.

"Meet you in ten minutes in Lachlan's room?"

"Ten!?"

I laughed, for we had made this quick changing down to a fine art in the past. "I've seen you do it in seven, Watson. Besides, do you want Lachlan up and around without you there to fuss at him?"

I heard a rather ungentlemanly phrase that sounded more like something Lachlan would say than my dear friend, but it was too good a feeling to laugh than to comment on the fact. I performed a hasty change and shave and threw my jacket on as I left my room – only to see that he had beaten me to Lachlan's door and was standing outside it smirking.

"Six and a half."

I grinned indulgently and knocked on the door. It was opened by Haight, who looked rather surprised to see us standing there together, and both smiling. I shifted a bit uncomfortably, and my dear Watson as always broke the awkward silence.

"Haight. I don't know what they do in America, but in England it's considered rather rude to stare," he said with a twinkle.

The lad blushed and stepped back into the room.

"Well, you didn't waste any time taking advantage of my permission to get up, did you?" Watson asked, seeing the midshipman dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Couldn't you have made this blasted cast a bit thinner, Doctor? I couldn't even tie my own shoes, confound it!" the man groused irritably, but I could tell from the way he glanced between Watson and me that he was eyeing our reactions to each other.

"No, I could not make it thinner, and you shouldn't be bending over to tie your shoes anyway!" he exclaimed. "You'll damage those ribs and undo all the good we've done the last few days. I swear if I see you even _start_ to bend at the waist you'll be back on bedrest for the duration of our stay here!"

I had lit a cigarette calmly during this tirade and now blew a ring of smoke casually toward the ceiling. "Better listen to him, Lachlan, he will find a way of revenge if you don't obey his orders," I drawled. "I remember one time he switched my tobacco out with tea leaves just because I was smoking too much while recovering from a head cold. That was…quite disturbing."

Watson turned a bright scarlet, and both our friends threw back their heads and laughed, Lachlan clutching at his side with a pained gasp after he made that mistake.

"Holmes, honestly!" my embarrassed friend protested, and I grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Shall I tell them what you did with your chemical set to me on April Fool's last year?" he asked with a wicked smirk.

Now it was my turn to flush uncomfortably. "I don't think that's necessary, do you?"

"Not now, at any rate," he replied with a grin, glancing at Lachlan and his young friend, both of whom were shooting each other relieved looks and visibly relaxing. No doubt they had been expecting a chilly winter storm complete with thunder and lightning from the two of us this morning.

"Oi! So 'ere's where th' party is!"

I moaned inwardly – why, why, _why_ had I agreed to bring that child with us? Alfie came bounding in the room and jumped on the bed beside Lachlan.

"Ow're yew?" he asked conversationally, fumbling with a knotted bootlace.

"Better, lad, thankee," the midshipman said with a smile.

"Sorry oi woke yew up, Doctor," the lad muttered absently, scowling at the knotted lace and giving it a solid yank.

"It was _your_ room, Alfie," my friend said, slipping from under my hand to sit beside the child and kindly untie the rebellious bootlace.

"Ta, Doctor," the lad said gratefully, frowning and retying the boot, then hopping off the bed.

Haight took Lachlan's arm as he rose, gingerly, and the midshipman shook him off with a growled profanity.

"Lachlan!" Watson gasped, pointing to the child in the room.

"Oh, come, Doctor, if I remember correctly the lad can outcuss myself or any other sailor I know," the midshipman said in exasperation, putting a hand on his ribcage with a grimace.

"'E's roight, Doctor," the lad agreed cheerfully, skipping out into the hall ahead of Watson and me, Lachlan bringing up the rear with Haight hovering nervously around him as if he were going to fall and shatter.

There was a giant whoofing noise, and Alfie gave a startled yelp and ducked behind Watson as the dog Ada came snuffling down the hall, espying our group and bounding toward us.

"Keep her away from Lachlan," Watson gasped, trying to pry the Irregular off his legs.

I made a grab for the dog's collar but missed as it jumped on my friend. He staggered backward under the impact, and Alfie shrieked and took off running down the corridor. Ada's huge paws released my friend's shoulders and it bounded happily after the child.

Watson scowled and brushed himself off, as Lachlan glanced at me and we both tried desperately not to laugh. A moment later Alfie (yelping most distressingly) came tearing back our direction with the dog chasing him, and they disappeared in the direction of the dining hall.

"Erm, Holmes…do you suppose…"

"Come on, Watson," I sighed, "we will meet you down there, Lachlan."

We hastily followed the pursuer and pursued until we reached the dining hall, just in time to see the Count himself make a dive for the flying Ada, shouting a stern command in German. The dog reluctantly dropped to the ground, its tail thumping wildly, and I saw that Alfie had latched onto the first sympathetic person he had seen…which happened to be Lady Claudia.

"Don't you even _think_ about leaving me here," Watson hissed in a vicious whisper, and I carefully hid my smirk as the woman approached with the child in tow. Behind her, I saw Sir August and that insufferable Strauss chap lounging beside the table, looking as bored as I felt.

Luckily for my friend, the Count and his fiancée intercepted the lady before she reached us, taking Alfie from her, and I felt Watson breathe a sigh of deep relief beside me.

"I am sorry about that, Herr Holmes," the Count said, "Ada usually does not stray far from the main halls – she must have a fascination with your _Junge_ here."

"Not your fault, Count," Watson said, putting a hand on the frightened lad's shoulder. "Ah, there is our injured friend. This is the first day he has been permitted to leave his bed."

Lachlan had apparently been a bit exhausted by his efforts, for he was leaning on Haight's arm – something he would never do unless absolutely necessary. I saw Watson's brows draw together in worry and knew he had also perceived the fact, but the introductions were made and Lachlan appeared to be perfectly fine during breakfast.

I could not help but feel sorry for Watson, as he was stuck between Alfie and the Lady Claudia, but my own options were no better across from him, as I was next to Hobart Strauss and Sir August. The former was rude as ever, the latter as uninteresting as ever, and both of them had the habit of talking over me, which thoroughly annoyed me. When I attempted to roll my eyes, Watson kicked me quite hard, which further irritated me. I was more than happy when the meal was over and we had made a hasty retreat to one of the sitting rooms.

"Can oi go outside, Doctor?"

"Alfie, I really don't want to go out in the cold, and after what's been happening I don't want you wandering round by yourself," my friend remonstrated.

"Please?"

"Actually, I was thinking about taking a brief walk outside, Watson, to look at the towers – the only logical explanation for that freezing draught last night is that somewhere there is an opening with the outside – in all probability a ventilator or a window. Most likely concealed behind a secret passage or some such ilk; the simplest way to locate said passage would be to look for windows on the outer walls of the tower and see if they actually corresponded with the interior," I offered.

"I'll take care of the kid while you do that, gents. Have you ever built a snow fort, Alfie?" Haight asked.

"A wha'?"

Haight grinned. "You'll see."

"Doctor, I've a bad case of cabin fever here – can't I go out for a few minutes?" Lachlan was actually rather close to pleading with Watson.

My friend scowled, but finally nodded. "But the first time you cough, you're coming back in. Agreed?"

The seaman scowled but affirmed the promise. Fifteen minutes later we were tramping about through two feet of snow. I ducked as a cold missile came dangerously close to knocking off my cap.

"Alfred Weber Samuelson, that is _not_ a good idea, I am warning you!" I shouted.

The lad stuck his tongue out at me – impertinent little chap, I wondered if Haight had been teaching him _that_ as well – and went back to his American friend. Lachlan walked beside us as we tramped through the snow to the west side of the castle, where the tower was located in which Haight and I had had our unusual experience.

"I say, I am glad to see the both of you looking like you had some sleep," Lachlan said quietly, his breath puffing in the crisp air.

"I apologised to your young friend over breakfast, Lachlan," I said soberly, "but I offer one to you as well."

The man shrugged in his easy fashion and then glanced upward. "That the tower you were talking about?"

"It is. Watson, your field-glasses, if I may?"

My friend handed me the glasses and I peered through them, training them on the windows of the tower, slowly walking round the base of the thing.

"Watch your footing, there's a drift. See anything?" Watson asked.

"Those were the rooms closest to the stairs, and they were all windowed…wait, this one here," I pointed upwards, handing the glasses to him, "simple enough. These windows here were not visible in that outermost room; it is there we must look for this passage. Once we find it, I rather believe we shall find that one window at least has been opened very recently. Come, gentlemen."

"Not you, Lachlan," Watson said sternly, "you are most definitely not climbing that entire four flights of stairs in your condition. You may stay out of bed if you remain stationary, but I am not going to hear any arguments to the contrary."

The seaman scowled, but he agreed – which showed us both that he was not feeling as well as he claimed. We made our way back toward the massive entrance, and suddenly a snowball came flying out of nowhere to make solid contact with Watson's hat, sending it thudding into a snowdrift.

"Alfie!" he called, half in amusement and half in annoyance, "stop that!"

Another white missile headed toward him, and this time he ducked – and it hit my coat instead. I heard Lachlan chuckle just as another snowball flew straight into Watson's face, leaving him spluttering and wiping snow from his mustache. He glared at the American and our young charge, who were both barricaded behind an odd structure that appeared to be made of solid snow.

"C'mon, Doctor!" the lad's voice broke through the crisp air towards us, "yew should play wit' us! Mr. Renie made us a snow fort!"

"A what?"

"Apparently a snow barricade," I observed dryly, ducking another projectile – if that American was as dead an aim with his bullets as he was with his snowballs, then he was even better a shot than Watson. I picked up Watson's hat and brushed it off, handing it back to him.

"Thank you. Look, we're going in now, Alfie – stay with Mr. Haight!" he called, and we turned our steps toward the entrance.

Only a moment later I felt something icy slap into my neck and then start to slide down my back – inside my coat, blast it!

"Alfred Weber!"

From Watson's yelp beside me, he had also been hit with a similar missile. Without thinking about the consequences, I balled up a wad of the white stuff and nailed the squealing child squarely on the head with it. Hah.

Rather than discouraging him, this only energised him to return the favour, and his aim was only slightly worse than mine – it hit my waist.

I growled with some ire, for being pummeled by snow from a ten-year-old child was not my idea of great fun, and I looked up to see Watson standing there with his mouth hanging partly open, staring at me as I squeezed the snow in my hands into a denser icy ball. No child gets the better of Sherlock Holmes.

"What?" I asked, puzzled, chucking the snowball at the American, who had poked his head above the 'fort' he had built. I heard a very satisfying yelp as my aim was obviously true.

Watson's jaw returned to normal position, and he grinned mischievously. "Shall we take them?"

"Oh, heavens, I am _not_ seeing this…" I heard Lachlan mutter behind us, though there was more than a hint of a laugh in his voice.

I smirked, more eager to keep that smile on Watson's face than to actually revenge the snow now dripping down my back.

"I do hope our American friend knows what it means to 'hold the fort'. Shall we?"


	18. Inconceivable Mystery

_There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery._

_- Joseph Conrad (1857–1924)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

I ducked an oversized snowball, and it sailed over my head. Lachlan had long since retreated to the relative safety of the front entrance and was watching the battle in the courtyard with a good deal of amusement and an occasional bellowed comment of support to Haight.

I ducked again as that scrawny Irregular pitched another missile at me – how a mere child could peg someone with such accuracy astounded me – and returned one of my own. I overpitched it – _confound it_ – and the lad danced out of the way and then hurled one at Watson, who was bending to snatch up a handful of his own.

The white mass struck him on the side of the head, and he lost his balance and fell right into a drift. I did not know whether to laugh or go help him up, but Alfie made the choice for me when he crept closer to my friend, who had not yet regained his feet.

In fact, he was lying quite still in the snow…had there been a rock in that snowball? No, never – the lad would never take a chance on harming Watson, not in a hundred years. Then…

"Doctor, yew oll roight?" Alfie asked, his voice shaking a bit. There was no answer.

"Doctor?"

I saw Haight's head pop up above the snow barricade to glance over anxiously, as I was doing, as the child's lip started to quiver and he bent over the motionless form of my friend…

Then he gave an enormous shriek as Watson lunged upward to grab him and tossed the boy into the snowbank beside him, shoving a handful of snow into the laughing child's mouth.

"Tha's not fair!" Alfie cried with a giggling splutter.

"No?" Watson grinned, holding the squirming lad down with one hand, "supposing I bury you alive out here? Holmes, do you think we could get away with that?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. No one will miss him until dinnertime," I responded seriously, giving an appropriately thoughtful nod.

"No! Mr. Renie!" the child shrieked, kicking snow into Watson's face and squirming.

Haight poked his head out from behind the enclosure again and I nailed him – hard, this time – right in the face. He yelped and ran for the entryway, Lachlan bellowing to him all the way that he was a 'bleedin' coward'.

"I'm not stupid enough to go up against the two of them in a fair fight!" the reporter yelled, "Any London criminal would tell you that's a bad idea!"

"Mr. 'Olmes!"

I heard a desperate shriek from behind me as I sent one last missile aimed at the fleeing reporter. I turned round and grinned, for Watson had succeeded in burying Alfie in the drift from the waist down, and the boy was now waving his arms frantically at me.

I broke into a chuckle as Watson then proceeded to tickle the helpless lad mercilessly, causing him to shriek and laugh and scream for aid, in that order.

"Mr. 'Olmes, 'elp!" the lad squealed, "'e's killin' me!"

I merely smiled fondly, content to see that my friend was apparently feeling more himself.

Alfie's giggles finally subsided into a series of weak hiccoughs, upon which Watson finally tossed the snow off him and scooped him up in a wet white mess.

"Now, young man, you are going to warm up and then I need you to keep Mr. Lachlan company while we go exploring, all right?"

The boy nodded weakly, wiping his eyes from laughing, and my friend set him on the ground and took a wet mitten as we ploughed our way back toward our grinning midshipman and his young friend.

Lehmann, who had entered the hall inside to announce luncheon, was thoroughly horrified at the sight of several grown men and one small child covered in snow, dripping all over the entryway.

This was a rather satisfying, if unproductive, morning.

_**Watson**_

Two hours later, Holmes and I had stowed Alfie with Lachlan and Renie (and two pots of hot cocoa that Mueller had brought in while we were discussing plans for the day) and had long since switched into warm dry clothing. Lachlan had looked rather tired, and so Renie was going to take the lad to do some exploring after both he and the midshipman had a nap.

"You should take one as well, Watson," my friend said absently as we stalked through the deathly still upper corridors of the castle.

I laughed. "_Now_ who's treating someone as if they were a child?"

He snorted, but then grinned ruefully. "Seriously, old chap. You do look rather done in, and it is not yet three o'clock."

"Perhaps after this. You know full well I wouldn't be able to sleep with you out traipsing round looking for secret passages, anyhow!"

"We may not find it," he replied pessimistically with a shrug, beginning to mount the four flights of stairs to the tower.

The steps wound up and around in a rather tight circle, and if one looked downwards it was positively staggering. For two minutes, I climbed steadily behind Holmes, but then my exhaustion and the chill air on my bad leg began to tell, and I stumbled once on the rough stone, pausing to catch my breath and my balance.

Holmes was three steps ahead of me, but he turned round on the instant and stepped back down to me.

"You all right, my dear fellow?"

I nodded, breathing heavily, the cold air biting my lungs. "Just – need to rest my leg – for a moment, that's all."

"I had forgotten, Watson. There is no rush; I shall slow down a bit."

I breathed a grateful sigh, shivering a bit in the cold. "If it was this chilly last night, how on earth did you stand it up here on a vigil for several hours without freezing to death?"

"Physical comforts are of no importance in a case, Watson, you know that very well. Any discomfort being voiced can easily be overruled by the power of the mind."

"Not of a _normal_ mind," I muttered, but gamely shivered and pushed onward behind him.

"Doesn't it strike you as odd, Holmes," I said after a few minutes of pondering, "that this phosphorescent appearance is the first time something of the sort has happened? I mean, so far there has just been this woman ghost – now all of a sudden there is something else?"

"Yes, of course it had struck me, Watson," he replied a with a slight irritation, "and the fact that this woman, ghostly in appearance she may be, has never been accompanied by any such phenomenon, has also struck me. But we shall see, Watson, we shall see. Come along."

Holmes led me through the rooms to the outermost one he had been looking at from the ground below, a tiny unfurnished room that apparently was used for storage, judging from the half-dozen odd crates and boxes against one of the walls. Once there he whipped out his lens and began to examine the stone, I supposed for cracks. I took the walking-stick he had brought with him and began to tap the stonework, hoping to hear a hollow sound.

"Harder, Watson – these walls are probably at least a foot thick," Holmes said distractedly, inspecting a crack in the stone, his nose a few inches from the cold wall.

I obligingly struck the stones methodically, but I could hear no difference in their sounds. I had begun at the left end of the wall and had worked my way to the right, and was now growing rather bored in addition to being half-frozen, when suddenly Holmes jumped over to where I was standing.

"Go back, one of those was off."

"I didn't hear any difference," I said puzzledly, but I did work my way backward, striking each large stone soundly with the stick.

"No…no…no…wait, that one! Let me see it," he said excitedly, and I relinquished the stick and moved out of the way.

Holmes slammed the stick sharply on the stone and then the one next to it, considerably harder than I had done…and that time I did hear a difference.

However, the force of his blow broke the walking stick in two.

I covered a smile as he swore at the stick as if it were entirely the instrument's fault for being so easily broken, and he tossed the pieces angrily into the corner with an almost animalistic growl. He then proceeded to calmly examine the stone, tracing a hairline crack in the stonework.

I walked over to the set of tiny narrow windows on the adjoining wall as the sunlight suddenly disappeared, plunging the room into greyness.

"Looks as if the night's snowstorm is approaching rather early, Holmes," I remarked, for grey clouds were now covering most of the icy blue sky, and a swirl of white flakes already whipped past the windows. I could hear the wind wailing round the outside of the tower, and I shivered – it was absolutely freezing up here with no heat and draughty stone, and the approaching evening temperatures made it even colder.

Holmes growled something unintelligible, banging his broken stick against the stone wall in anger.

"What is it?" I asked, rubbing my arms to warm them.

"I can see a tiny fracture in the stonework here, and it does sound different, Watson – I would swear to the existence of a secret passage here. But the stone appears to fit perfectly in the mortar, and I can discern absolutely no signs of anyone entering or exiting – no dust has been disturbed, not footprints, no chipped mortar, nothing. Nor can I discover how to open the blasted thing."

He looked thoroughly frustrated, scowling blackly and muttering to himself. I shivered again, for the temperature was fast dropping.

"Perhaps there is not really an opening in the wall, just a sort of ventilation for the phosphorescent fog to come through?" I suggested, trying to stop my teeth from chattering.

"Not that is visible," he growled, throwing himself prone on the ground and examining the bottom stone in each row.

The light was dimming rapidly now, and he struck a match to hold close to the stone. "I can see no ventilation here either."

"Then c-can't we come back and try again when it's a bit warmer?" I asked hesitantly, for it was really quite freezing – I wished I had worn my overcoat.

He glanced up from the floor and sighed. "Very well. Honestly, Watson, this entire case is so ridiculously elusive it is driving my out of my mind completely! When will I get some concrete evidence to work on, something more than ghost fog and frightened women?"

I sighed, for I knew he wanted no reply and I therefore gave him none. I was so tired…I rather believed I should have taken Holmes up on his suggestion that I nap this afternoon, I believed I could do with a good sleep.

Holmes scrambled to his feet with a slight shiver. "My word, it is cold, now that you mention it," he said, glancing out the window. "That is all we need in this godforsaken place, more snow."

I agreed through chattering teeth and turned to open the door.

"Wait, didn't you leave this open?" Holmes asked in a wary tone.

"I thought so, but honestly I am rather too tired to remember," I sighed, turning the knob.

It stopped abruptly.

Holmes's face darkened, and he reached to rattle the knob, then shake it hard and kick at the door. It budged not an inch.

"Blast it all – it locks on the outside!"

"Automatically?" I asked incredulously. "That's rather a poor design!"

"These towers were used for prisoners and storage in the medieval days, Watson, it stands to reason that the locks were on the outside of the doors," he growled, giving the lock a solid kick. The heavy oaken door did not even shiver.

"I don't like this, Holmes," I said slowly, glancing round at the chilly room, "I would have sworn I left it open…"

"So would I – which is a rather discomforting thought," Holmes said calmly, though his eyes were darting round the room warily, "and as there is no keyhole on this side of the door, I cannot pick the lock. Have you your gun with you?"

I shook my head ruefully, "I forgot to put it in my pocket after we changed out of those wet clothes."

I shivered again as the chill air bit into my lungs when I took a deep breath, making me cough harshly.

Holmes shot me a concerned look and banged soundly on the door, then examined it for weaknesses. It was solid as a jail…which it might as well have been.

He gave up with a sigh, pulling out his pocket-watch. "Well, Watson. It is a little over three hours until dinner, when we shall surely be missed by Lachlan and our two younger companions. It looks as if you are stuck with my company for that amount of time."

His jovial attitude was rather lost on me, as I was freezing by now, but I tried to keep my mind off the cold by talking.

"Holmes, do you think the door locked automatically, maybe got shut by a draught?"

"Possibly."

"But not probably."

"No, somehow I doubt it, my dear fellow. Someone wanted us to either be out of the way for a few hours, or else to stay up here for some reason."

"D-doesn't that amount to the same thing?"

"Not necessarily," Holmes said slowly, his brows knitted. He began to pace nervously up and down the small room.

I huddled up on one of the stronger-looking crates against the wall, repressing another shiver as the cold air seemed to seep slowly through every inch of my clothing. My bare hands were rapidly growing numb, and I rubbed them together briskly, blowing on them to try and bring a bit of warmth back into them.

"Want my coat?"

I glanced up in surprise, for he had been so deep in thought I doubted he even noticed ought else in the room.

"No, thank you. You're thinner than I anyway, you're bound to be c-colder," I said, managing a grin.

He snorted, the air round his head forming into a puff of crystals at the noise.

"Why would someone imprison us in this room, Watson?" he asked pensively, taking a seat on a box close to me.

It gave a sharp cracking noise and sank under even his small weight, and he hastily got up and tried another. My laughter sent another cloudy puff into the frigid air.

"I have no idea, are you going to tell me?"

He grinned. "Well, it is not for the purpose of killing us, for though the climate in here is less than desirable it would take a good many hours to freeze to death."

"I'm b-beginning to wonder," I muttered.

"And besides, there are far safer, more certain ways to kill us. Though that would be a most novel method of murder – freezing to death _indoors_… I don't believe I've ever encountered that in my career. We could be the first!"

"Now _that_ is a comforting thought," I returned dryly.

He shot me a grin, but it faded into a anxious glance when I coughed again – that air was so bitterly cold…

"You're getting sick."

"Nonsense, it's just freezing in here."

"Now that is the most stunning observation you've made since we arrived, Watson."

I glared at him, and was a bit pleased to see him squirm on the crate and hastily start the conversation up again. "Now. Why exactly would someone lock us in here, when they know we'll be missed for dinner soon?"

"Three hours is not _soon_, when you're imprisoned in a deep freeze!"

"Focus, Watson. It will get your mind off your surroundings. Remember, physical discomfort can always be overcome by mental detachment." His words were stern, but the tone was kind, and accompanied by an encouraging smile.

I nodded. "Well, either something is happening elsewhere in the castle that they do not want us to be part of, or else there is some reason they want us to remain up here. They want us to find something in this room? The passage, possibly?"

"Bravo, my dear fellow. I sincerely hope the latter is the true answer, for I do not relish the thought of our being incapacitated while whoever this person is runs rampant in the castle with only a child, an injured sailor, and an American to safeguard its occupants."

I blanched at the thought – Lachlan was indeed incapacitated, and that child…

Holmes's face assumed a apologetic look, and he reached over to lay a cold hand on my arm. "You forget that you yourself have dubbed our young reporter as 'trigger-happy', old chap. They shall be fine."

I shivered, and the hand tightened. "I hope so," I said softly, but then a thought struck me.

"If whoever locked us in this icebox wants us to find something, perhaps that passage, why do they want us to find it, Holmes?"

"There your conjecture is as good as mine, my dear fellow. I have no idea, I will admit."

The wind picked up with an unearthly howl, whipping round the tower with such force I fancied I could feel the small room swaying, and the greyness was fast fading to darkness. Holmes got up and started absently digging through the crate he was sitting on.

"What are you looking f-for?"

"A lamp, or a c-candle at least. Unless you prefer the dark?"

"I'll help you look."

Unfortunately, the boxes I began to ransack held only antiques and odd pieces of décor. Judging from Holmes's growling, he was having no better luck in locating a source of light – and we were now being forced to search by match-light as the light had faded so much with the storm that I could only discern his outline in the dark ghostly greyness.

"Shouldn't they have noticed b-by now that we're g-gone?" I asked through chattering teeth, though the movement had warmed me up ever so slightly.

Holmes stumbled over to the window to try and get a good look at his watch.

"It's only been an hour, old chap," he sighed, "it will be two more before dinner – it gets dark infernally early this time of year. My word, it's c-cold in here!"

He went back to the last box on a faint hope of finding a lamp, and I more collapsed than sat on the nearest sturdy crate, for I was not only freezing but exhausted as well…how I wished now that I had taken Holmes's suggestion and gone for a nap…

"Hah!" Holmes's cry of happiness jolted me out of the sort of frozen doze I had fallen into.

"Find a candle?" I asked eagerly.

"Unfortunately, no. But this is nearly as good, and far more necessary. Here."

I saw the vague outline of something extended toward me. "What is it?"

"Apparently an old blanket, packed round a bunch of statuettes. A bit threadbare in places, but it should help you a bit at least."

I felt a sudden blessed warmth round my shoulders and huddled into it with a limp sigh. "Th-thank you, Holmes."

"Now, I am going to find that passage. Or try to."

"In the dark?"

"Have you ever observed, Watson, how one's other senses are magnified and enhanced when the sense of sight is incapacitated? With no light, perhaps I shall be able to feel the draught from where the passage is or feel where the latch to open the door is. At any rate, one of us has to stay awake in the event of a ghostly phosphorescent visitor, and I should much prefer that you sleep so you do not keel over on me later if we decide to keep a midnight vigil."

"Sleep in sub-arctic temperatures? Isn't that dangerous?"

I heard a soft laugh. "Exaggeration has always been one of your more florid characteristics. Now do try, old chap. I shall keep watch, and perhaps we shall learn something one way or the other before our rescue party arrives."

I shivered and huddled back up in the blanket, drawing my knees up to my chest, and hoped fervently that someone would very, very soon realise we were gone too long.


	19. How Does One Kill Fear?

_Sorry about the delay (VHunter!), but PGF and I both are having laptop issues - she with a cord and I with my wireless card. We offer an extra long chapter to make up for it, and another to follow tomorrow. If I can get to a computer, that is..._

* * *

_How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?_

_- Joseph Conrad (1857–1924)_

* * *

_**Watson**_

It seemed that I was able to sleep in that cold room, for a while later I was abruptly awoken by the sounds of assault upon the door and Holmes's thin hand on my shoulder.

"Wake up, Watson, they've found us."

I groaned and sat up slowly, for the cold and my cramped position on the unyielding crate had caused me to stiffen considerably, and at my first movement a dull throb pulsated through my game leg, enough to cause me to wince and hesitate.

Holmes noticed my trouble and leant down, putting a hand on my arm so that I could stumble to my feet with his assistance.

His grey eyes, the only windows into his otherwise emotionless countenance, told me of their concern and that in and of itself was enough to make me feel warmer. It was indeed good to be on good terms with him once more.

"Th-thank you, Holmes."

I shivered violently as I laid down the thick blanket that had been covering me, feeling the cold that had been seeping into my bones for hours attack my face and hands with a fresh wave of numbing frost. Holmes too was shivering, perhaps even worse than I for he had had no share of the blanket.

He nodded to my thanks and, once I was steady, turned back to the door.

Someone had indeed come for us for the door was being fiddled with as this occurred, and after a few scrapings of the lock the large piece of oak swung inward.

I had expected to see Mueller or Lehmann, or even Renie.

What I had _not_ expected was to see a flush-faced Lachlan, his eyes sharp with urgency as he peered hurriedly into the room.

"Lachlan!" I found myself raising my voice in exasperation. That was four flights of steps! It was a wonder the man had not killed himself thus far, considering the little regard he had for his health.

The midshipman was breathing heavily and his free arm was wrapped around his middle and side, when he spotted us his face went lax with some relief.

"Lachlan what in heaven's name do you think you're doing!?" I snapped again, "You are meant to be resting not traipsing up and down flights of drafty stairs!"

The sailor looked at me, and his lips twitched. "It seems…your short rest…has given you back…some of your spirit…Doctor."

He gasped this at intervals leaning heavily against the wall.

I sighed and pulled him towards one of the crates, pushing him down onto it.

"Sit down, man, before you fall down."

He was bundled in his peacoat and a hat and gloves as well…at least he had had the sense to bundle up…

But even as I took this in a troubling thought niggled at the back of my mind and my hand came away wet from his shoulder. Holmes quickly placed his hand where mine had been, his eyes grave.

"Why is your coat so damp?" I asked, as Holmes continued his visual examination, taking in the damp, slick boots as well.

"Outside," the seaman gasped again, leaning his head back against the wall with his eyes closed.

"Why on earth!?" I bent to examine his side but he pulled away and shook his head in exasperation.

"Don't…I'm fine…just…get my breath back."

"What were you doing outside?" Holmes asked sternly.

Lachlan opened his eyes in a rather irritated glare. "For a couple of fellows…who've just been released…from this blasted freezer…you're being as nosy as a pair of fishwives."

I felt some relief at this pronouncement - he was feeling better, and his breathing was regulating…but he still looked somewhat shaky.

"You were not whom we were expecting," Holmes amended. "Not that we are not grateful, but it was foolish to come yourself, and…"

He straightened as something suddenly occurred to him.

I followed his gaze to the opened door: how had he unlocked it?

Lachlan smiled slightly, and held up a small strip of bent metal.

"Renie…he's taught me a few tricks…although I'm not sure whether to be disturbed…or intrigued…that lock-picking is part of a reporter's trade."

Nor did I in fact, but that was beside the point.

"Speaking of Haight, why did you not send him instead of coming yourself?" I said sternly, "Your ribs are still mending…"

Lachlan waved me off, which was unusual; for even though he did not appreciate my medical advice, he was never one to brush things aside like Holmes – rather, he would have liked to argue the matter.

The fact that he was apparently not in the mood for argument alarmed me, and I waited for him to explain while he drew in another slow, steadying breath.

"I've been resting all day, Doctor, prior your orders, woke up near half an hour ago and went in search of the rest of ye."

"You went outside to search? What in heaven's name for?"

At this comment the sailor's impossible patience snapped as I had seen it do only a few times in the past, and he gave me an icy glare that called to mind the look of the Atlantic coast in winter.

"I am _trying_ to tell you, Doctor…if the two of you would see fit to stop treating me like a child!"

It was not the most impressive of outbursts, but coming from Lachlan it meant a great deal and when Holmes's hand touched my shoulder in warning I thought it best to be quiet and listen.

Lachlan ploughed on, as though his irritation was already forgotten, his blonde brows drawn nearly together in consternation.

"I went outside because I could not find any of ye in yer rooms."

I frowned. "But Alfie and Renie…"

"I know, Doctor - that's what I went outside for! Thought they might have gone back to their snow-fort, that crazy Yank..."

"Only they were not outside," Holmes said, and I was surprised by the level of anxiety in his voice.

He was standing just behind me, his gray eyes fixed intently on Lachlan, hard and shining and not revealing a touch of emotion…which meant that there was something wrong, something he had already discerned.

"They weren't," Lachlan confirmed. "Holmes, they're nowhere. I've asked and searched and got some of the staff even to help me look…finally I remembered that the pair of you had come up here, and I thought that even you could not take that long in findin' a tunnel."

I heard the last of this explanation as though from a great distance, and was oddly aware of the sound of blood rushing through my own head, pounding in my ears. They were missing…the two youngest members of our group…one of them only a child…

"How long since you've seen them?" Holmes's sharp voice broke through the confusion and for once I was very grateful for his cold, brusque manner.

"As long as I've not seen you," Lachlan said quietly, and I saw now that his own blue eyes were dimmed with concern.

"Then we haven't a moment to lose," Holmes said, reaching out to help Lachlan to his feet once more. "Watson, go on ahead, find Lehmann, and we'll follow."

But Lachlan interrupted this little plan, pulling himself loose from Holmes's grip.

"Blazes if I'm goin' to sit around while some stone-faced butler searches for my mate! I've already spoken with him and Mueller, and they haven't seen 'em either, and the Count and the other two "men," if they can be called that, have gone out hunting. You gents are welcome to come along but I intend to find those lads _now_."

He headed for the door with a purposeful stride that surprised me and I exchanged a concerned look with Holmes. If Lachlan was anything, he was self-control…and here he seemed on the verge of losing it completely, so great was his worry.

Holmes hurried to catch up with him and I followed, the chill and stiffness nearly forgotten but for my still-aching leg.

Lachlan's pace did slow at the stairs as he hesitated at their edge and then began to descend, his hand clutching his side and his face wincing somewhat at the movement.

At the bottom I fell into step beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll find them, Lachlan."

He shot me a grateful look, though his eyes still shone with a grim purpose.

"Yes Doctor, we will….and if anyone at all has touched them…"

He did not finish his threat, and in reality did not need to as my imagination was doing a splendid job of filling in that empty space anyway.

"You've checked all our rooms and the main traffic areas?" Holmes asked.

"Aye, and also the kitchens and the sitting rooms that Renie's been overly occupying the last coupla evenings. No one has seen them."

"Perhaps we _should_ find Lehmann," I said, falling back on Holmes's earlier comment. "We could enlist help in searching the castle."

But Holmes shook his head.

"They've been missing for over three hours, Watson, far too long for a simple exploring escapade. If they _are_ still in this castle, then I have a suspicion that they are not to be so easily found as by searching."

"What do you mean, _if_ they are still in the castle!?"

Holmes gave me a brief look before facing forward again. Another chill ran through me…of course I already knew what he meant, though I did not want to face up to it. Though Haight would never have been foolish enough to go far from the castle in such weather…there was every chance that someone might have abducted them from the castle itself.

"But why?" I found myself protesting. What was the purpose in such an action? What was the purpose behind any of the attacks that had been put to us?

"Don't despair yet, Watson, I did not say that _is_ what happened, I said it was a _possibility_. Lachlan, can you remember anything that they might have said before they left you…anything at all that could lead us to them?"

"They said they were going exploring." I said.

Holmes frowned. "Exploring where…surely they've seen every interesting feature of the castle so far?"

True. Alfie's time with Mueller would have dispelled most of his curiosity about the place, and as precocious as Haight was I could not imagine him finding more than a slight interest in room after furnished room of a well-kept castle.

"Perhaps we should try the less well-known features then," I said. "There are still the cellars, and several more tower rooms."

There were a great many things that a young boy such as Alfie and an enterprising reporter like Haight would find interesting in the cellars; for according to the count it was filled with not only old-sheet covered furniture but also unused weapons and armor…and of course there were always…

I stopped in my tracks so suddenly that Holmes and Lachlan both halted as well and looked back in concern.

"Holmes," I gasped, breathless with the revelation of the thing. "The passages. If they're in that maze, we might never find them…"

Holmes drew in a sharp breath and would have turned back towards the stairs, no doubt to fetch the map we had made of the passages, but Lachlan's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"They won't have gone inside any passages, Holmes," he said quickly.

"Why not?" the detective demanded, still aquiver to follow up this one clue we had at our disposal.

Lachlan sighed softly.

"Renie…he'll have my hide for telling you this…but Renie doesn't like small spaces. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement – he can't stand them, absolutely terrified of them. He would sooner have taken Alfie outside for another snowball fight in this drivin' storm than gone in one of them."

I felt a twinge of sympathy at this, for I knew what it was like to have a paralyzing fear.

Holmes nodded, "Very well, the cellars then. Watson, will you go and ask –"

But his comments were interrupted by a sudden outbreak of barking and howling.

We all three turned and faced the rear of the corridor, watching as a young man, one of the groomsmen, struggled towards us with Ada on a leash.

The dog was fairly frantic, yelping and howling hoarsely as she pulled at the thick leather band around her neck, putting up such a fuss that the boy was hard put to keep hold of her, let alone control her.

In that instant the large dog managed to pull the poor lad off his feet and tried to run past us, dragging the boy after her.

I bent and at once caught hold of the leash myself, pulling both of them to an abrupt halt, though this did not cease the dog's struggles as she yelped and whined frantically.

"I say, lad," I gasped with the effort of holding her. "What's wrong with her?"

The boy looked at me in puzzlement and I realized that in my anxiety I had phrased the question in English.

I put it to him again in hasty fumbled German and at last his face cleared and he answered.

"Doctor, now's not the time for dealing with that pest!" Lachlan said anxiously, "What is he doing with her?"

"He says she's upset," I grunted as there was yet another tug on the leash. "Her master went hunting without her this afternoon and has not come back yet, and now she will not calm down…something to that effect at least."

"Let her go."

I looked back as this calm, cool voice, the only such voice there, reached my ears.

Holmes was standing over us, staring intently at the dog.

"What?" I asked incredulously.

"Let her go, Watson; I strongly doubt that that dog has ever been hunting in the entirety of her life, hence she cannot be anxious over so normal an occurrence, it's something else. Let her go!"

His meaning struck me like a blow to the head.

Alfie…this dog had a fixation on Alfie.

I released my hold and the dog lurched forward several steps, dragging the groomsman with her. He looked up at me in bewilderment, and perhaps a little resentment.

_"Lassen sie den Hund los!"_ Holmes snapped at the poor lad who leapt and was so startled by my friend's masterly command that he did just that.

Ada burst forward like a horse released from a starting gate, down the hall and around the corner, Holmes at her heels at once, demonstrating the same fleetness of foot he had displayed in the Baskerville case.

I stumbled to my feet, pulling the poor, bewildered groom to his and the three of us swiftly followed the other two.

I could have outdistanced the other lad and the sailor, for Lachlan's stamina was flagging dramatically and the poor young fellow was still utterly confused, but I stayed with them - for the seaman had grown somewhat grey in the face, and his breathing was dangerously rapid once again.

We kept up a rapid pace for a few minutes as the dog led us down to a rather more obscure corner of the castle…at the east end, and then Lachlan staggered slightly against me and held his ribs. I put my hand warningly on his arm.

"Lachlan, you need –"

But the seaman shook me off and taking several bracing breaths he started forward again, a little slower this time.

"I need…to find Renie."

There was no deterring or stopping him, and very soon we came to yet another set of steps that led down into a small, very dim corridor that I had not seen before.

Here Lachlan was forced to pause and catch his breath, and I took the opportunity to question the groomsman again.

_"Wohin führt diese Treppe?"_

_"Zu einigen Lagerräumen, mein Herr."_

"What was that?" Lachlan gasped questioningly.

"Storage area –"

"_Watson_!"

Lachlan jerked upright at the sound of the shout and I hurried to the entrance of the stairs.

"Holmes? Have you found something?"

"Get down here! Quickly! Bring the lock-pick, and a light if you can locate one!"

I hesitated, glancing at the groomsman who looked more confused than ever.

"Holmes, you cannot just break into the count's storage compartments, not in front of his staff!"

"Then send the boy away, Watson, but for heaven's sake _hurry_!"

Lachlan set off at once down the steps and I turned to the lad, trying my best to come up with some explanation or other, my German fleeing my mind in the face of this gnawing worry.

Either he found it acceptable, or else he concluded that we were all mad - for he turned away and set off back down the hall, muttering something about fetching a bribe for the dog…no wonder the poor beast was becoming overweight.

I hurried down the steps after my companions, blinking in the darkness and pulling a box of matches out of my pocket. How in heaven's name could Holmes see in this darkness?

I struck a light and was relieved to spot a lantern, sitting just beside the door, left there no doubt for this very use.

I lit it, for it was well-kept and still contained oil, and at once the narrow passage was illuminated for a distance, driving the remaining darkness further down the corridor where it lurked ominously.

Thick, squat doors lined the walls, offering entrance to what must have been storage spaces so low that one would have had to crawl through them. In front of one of these was crouched the dog Ada, who, ignoring our presence completely, was worrying at the wood, adding scratch marks to the already scored surface.

"See here, Watson." Holmes said, crouching beside the dog and running his nervous hands lightly over the scars. "These are all recent, she has been at this for a great while. She must have followed them here."

Lachlan, who stood just beside Holmes and was almost rigid with suppressed energy and anxiety fixed his keen eyes on the door as though his gaze could burn through it.

"They are inside there, then?" the seaman gasped in horror, and hardly waited for Holmes's answering nod before he was falling to his knees beside him and the dog.

"Lachlan," I said warningly, "your ribs."

He ignored me completely, which spoke a great deal of his state of mind. William Lachlan, as I said, was not one to brush the words of a friend aside carelessly.

They both tried to move the dog, but the animal let out a whine and surged in front of the midshipman, ramming into his side. The seaman paled, gritted his teeth, and with a roughness that I should never have credited to the sailor, slapped her aside – not viciously, but pointedly.

Ada leapt back, startled, whining, and gave the midshipman a hurt look before huddling down to the floor.

Again he took no notice but pulled the metal lock-pick out of his pocket once again and fumbled to put it into the key hole with unsteady hands, whether from fatigue or fear I did not know…but he had never shown any such unsteadiness when he had helped Holmes to watch after me in the _Friesland_ affair.

After a few fumbled tries and several very colourful oaths, Holmes took the lock from him and stuck it into the keyhole, twisting it and opening it with a few deft movements and after only a few moments.

Lachlan reached out and pulled on the handle, scraping the ancient door open with Holmes's help.

Seeing this, Ada tried to leap forward again, but I caught her collar and held her back.

"Watson, the light!" my friend said anxiously and he leapt to his feet, taking my place at the dog's collar and pushing me toward the entrance, where I knelt and shone the lantern inside.

I felt my stomach plummet as the light revealed the long, narrow, and very low space, packed haphazardly with boxes and canvas-wrapped objects…it was no more than four feet high, with a depth of six though it stretched nearly five feet on both the left and right sides – but most of that space was taken up by items being stored.

And there…just in the middle before the door…

"D-Doctor!"

A very dusty, ginger-haired individual scrambled at once out of the room and flung his arms around my neck, gripping my throat in such a terrified clench I feared I might choke.

I set down the lantern and hugged the lad tightly for he was trembling violently, his face buried in my shoulder as he shook with scared sobs…and shaking from cold as well, for the room had to have been freezing.

I would have pulled off my coat and wrapped it around him but he would not release me; instead he began to talk very fast as he did when nervous, the cold and the tears making his Cockney accent more incoherent than ever before.

"Oi knew you'd come, Doctor…Yew'n Mr. 'Olmes and Mr. Lachlan…Oi told 'im yew'd come and yew did and 'e wouldn' believe me, 'e was frightened an'…an' 'e wouldn' talk to me. But oi knew yew'd come, oi knew it and yew came..."

His high voice broke into a burst of fresh sobbing and he finally went limp against me, in such relief that he did not notice the presence of Ada, who was finally being handed off to the groomsman that had returned, his face ever more puzzled at the sight of the frantic Irregular.

"Its all right, Alfie. I swear its all right. We won't leave you again."

He nodded into my shoulder with a hiccough but refused to release me. Accepting this condition, I turned to Lachlan, who was kneeling in the entrance, looking in – and I really did not want to imagine what he was looking at.

For a moment I was stricken by the look of fear and apprehension on the seaman's face – he had always been more open in his emotions than Holmes – than me even…but this was so very open and tender that I had the idea that it was like catching a glance of the seaman's very soul.

He reached out toward the form of his friend, who was curled in a ball in the entrance, his back to the door.

"Renie."

Lachlan's voice shook as he put a hand on the reporter's shoulder and shook it lightly. "Renie?"

The young man reacted violently, curling up tighter and pulling away, almost totally still despite the cold.

"Has he been this way before?" I asked quietly and Lachlan nodded grimly, without taking his eyes off of the reporter.

"Once, in a tomb in Egypt." He reached out again and this time took firm hold of Haight's collar, pulling him out.

Again Haight struggled, and this time he let out a small whimper of terror, trying desperately to break his friend's grip.

I knew exactly what it was like to have a crippling fear, and my heart went out to the American. Five hours in there, suffering from acute claustrophobia…I imagined what I would feel being in deep water for that amount of time and the mere thought was enough to make me nauseous.

But Lachlan would not have Haight's struggling; the seaman reached out with his other hand, strong and calloused from years of working with ropes and lines and sheets. He took hold of Haight's arm and with an mighty heave, as though the young man were not struggling at all, pulled him out of the tiny crawlspace.

Once he was clear, Haight let out a startled wordless cry and, throwing his arms up in front of his face, began to shiver and tremble even more violently than Alfie himself. Lachlan pulled him upright and drew the lad to him in a firm embrace, wrapping his strong arms (awkwardly because of the cast on his left) around the young man's shoulders to steady him.

"Easy Renie…easy lad…You're clear of it…steady now…"

Haight said nothing for a few moments, though he ceased his struggles once he felt the unyielding grip of the sailor's arms, and finally the sounds of terror died down into a hoarse, uneven breathing.

"Steady, lad." Lachlan continued his calm litany, "Steady now…its gone…its over…you're all right."

After a few moments of this, during which Holmes and I stood by, I holding Alfie and he holding the lantern aloft to light the corridor with one hand and the other on Alfie's thin shoulder, a low whisper sounded.

"Lachlan?"

Lachlan nodded. "Aye lad, it's me. It's all right now."

Haight's hands gripped the seaman's arms for a moment before he pulled away again, less violently this time, and Lachlan let him. The American ended up on his hands and knees, dry heaving, seemingly trying his utmost to turn himself inside out. The midshipman hovered anxiously at his shoulder, keeping one hand bracingly on the lad's back, until at last the terrible affliction ended and Haight sat up, shaking from his efforts now as well as fear and the cold, his face so white that the freckles on his face stood out like beacons.

Lachlan kept an arm around the lad's shoulders and Haight did not object or pull away, but rather leaned into the seaman for support. Alfie had quieted at last though he clung to me still with an occasional sniffle, no doubt exhausted both emotionally and physically. I remained quiet, patting the child's back gently.

Holmes broke the momentary silence, his face openly betraying his concern and from the hard, ice-like quality of his eyes, anger as well.

"What happened, Haight?" he asked softly, ever to the point where others might have taken the time to offer words of comfort and reassurance.

Haight took a bracing breath and spoke in that same, strained voice that was so unlike his own.

"Alfie went into the room because the door was open, we were just exploring…I went to fetch him out…they closed the door on us."

"Who?"

The reporter shook his head, his eyes downcast, not looking at any one of us. "I don't know."

"Are you all right?" I asked softly, for I well knew how sickening such a phobia could be.

A nod.

"He's frozen through, Doctor." Lachlan said, his voice thick with emotion and his arm still protectively around his friend. "And I can imagine Alfie's in a worse state even then he."

I nodded and got to my feet, still holding Alfie. "I think we might call Mueller for some more hot chocolate, and then when they're ready to bed with them. Rest and warmth are the best remedies for both."

Holmes bent to help Lachlan and Haight to their feet, his face shadowed and troubled in the flickering light of the lantern.

"Lead the way, Watson, and we shall follow…and rest assured, _nothing else will happen tonight_."

This was said with such a vehement snap of teeth and flash of anger in my friend's eyes that I could not help but be reminded of a wolf…or some great cat such as a tiger or a lion stalking the darkness for its prey.

I felt a corresponding anger in my own chest: whoever this villain was, they had far overstepped their bounds.

I pitied whatever ghost would be foolish enough to trouble us again that evening.


	20. A Ghost to Disturb Your Repose

_Every difficulty slurred over will be a __ghost__ to disturb your repose later on._

_- Rabindranath Tagore _

* * *

_**Holmes**_

Watson emerged from Alfie's bedroom to where I was waiting in the hall and closed the door.

"My word, Holmes, I'm so tired…" he murmured, and I was quite surprised at his admitting the fact – proof of how absolutely exhausted he really was, for he never complained to anyone but me, and only me when he was too fatigued to realise what he was doing.

He stumbled a bit as he walked towards me, and I hastily reached out to steady him, hoping he would not take the gesture as an insult, for his stamina could be every bit as strong as my own if not more so; and times like this I was completely in awe of the man.

I opened my mouth to order him to bed, but at that moment Lachlan staggered out into the hall from Renie's room and after shutting the door, fairly fell against the wall, clutching his broken side and breathing raggedly.

I felt Watson stiffen and he instantly was at the seaman's elbow.

"You're going to have a relapse, Lachlan!" he said anxiously, helping the panting man down to his own bedroom, "you are not getting up tomorrow until I say so, is that clear?"

"Go to blazes," the sailor growled with a moan, though his eyes twinkled very faintly at my friend.

Between the two of us, we had Lachlan settled back in his bedroom and Watson performed another examination on the protesting midshipman.

"Swollen," was Watson's diagnosis as he gave us both a look of dismay, running his hands ably along the man's ribcage, "you mustn't do any more moving round – I mean it, Lachlan."

"All _right_, Doctor," the man sighed, wincing as Watson began to re-wrap the broken ribs tightly with my aid.

As I helped him with the gauze, my eyes fell on Watson's hands – they were shaking, but I suspected from absolute exhaustion rather than from cold, for the room was fairly warm thanks to the roaring fire.

He finished the bandaging, pulled the covers up round the midshipman, put away his medical instruments, and snapped the bag shut; then glanced round to see if he had forgotten anything. _As if he ever would_.

Then he collapsed into the chair beside Lachlan's bed with a limp sigh, glancing up at me.

"I never got the chance to ask you if you found that passage while I was asleep up there," he said faintly.

"I did not find it, unfortunately – it must open from the inside only – and you are _not_ going to ask me anything else tonight," I said sternly, taking his arm and pulling him reluctantly to his feet toward the door.

"You're going to be up all night, aren't you?" he inquired, rubbing his eyes.

"If I need a sounding board, I'll use Lachlan," I replied, pushing him gently ahead of me toward his bedroom next door. "You need a good night's sleep, and you're going to get it tonight if I have to give you a sedative."

He broke into a weary laugh at that and fumbled the door open.

"Good heavens, it's freezing in here!" he gasped upon being hit with the cold air.

"I'll get the fire, you change," I said firmly, stalking over to the fireplace and blowing on the glowing embers, then adding the smaller pieces of wood.

By the time he had returned from the bath down the hall I had rather an inferno going and was actually wondering if I had put too much on…but his grateful smile of thanks made it of no matter.

"If you have a ni-…have trouble sleeping, Holmes, come and get me," he murmured sleepily, though he was aware enough to tactfully refrain from an actual mention of my nightmares.

I had no intention of doing anything of the kind – the man was going to have a breakdown if he did not get a good night's (or rather several good nights') rest. But I nodded anyway to ease his mind, and by the time I had brushed myself off and gotten to my feet, he was deep in sleep without another word, poor chap.

I pulled the blanket up and blew out the candle – then my eyes fell on his watch on the small table beside the bed and I smirked.

Glancing down once more to see that he was actually asleep, I carefully changed the time to four hours previously; when he awoke in the morning he would promptly go back to sleep, thinking he had four more hours before breakfast.

I was sure that sleep at this point would be more beneficial to his health than that heavy Germanic breakfast, and by heaven he was going to get it by fair means or foul – it was already well after eleven and he needed all the rest he could get. No doubt he would be thoroughly incensed at my liberty in the morning, but that was easier dealt with than his fainting from sheer exhaustion later in the day.

Then I turned down the gas by the door and shut it softly behind me, walking back through the cold corridor to Lachlan's room. The seaman was blinking at the ceiling with an air of extreme boredom, but he glanced up as I entered.

"Finally get him to sleep a bit?"

I nodded, taking the chair beside the bed and leaning back with my fingertips touching. "How's your reporter doing?"

The seaman shrugged the shoulder that was not attached to a casted arm. "Asleep by now I hope. Nasty business."

I nodded once more. "I am not overly fond of enclosed dark spaces myself."

"Not the best case for you to be handling then, is it?" the seaman asked with a twinkle.

I smiled, though my mind was already spinning through the history and facts of this case. My pensiveness must have showed upon my countenance, for the sailor looked at me curiously.

"Ye look like you could do some thinkin', Holmes. 'S long as you don't get too close, yer smoking shouldn't bother me, though the Doctor will have my hide if I start coughing."

I shook my head in agreement. "No sense in chancing it."

"Will it help for you to talk about the case?"

I frowned. "The main thing that is bothering me, besides the considerable dearth of concrete evidence of legitimate foul play going on, is the fact that I have no suspects for the ghost business, Lachlan. Normally I know whom I am looking for, or at least have several people to question and deduce from. I've had absolutely nothing so far."

"If ye ask me, it's that insufferable Strauss chap," the seaman growled, "I've never met a bloke that positively repellant. I wish he _were _a real ghost, because he's downright nasty when you come down to it."

"If having a caustic personality makes a man a spirit, then _I_ am certainly in for a long ethereal afterlife," I said dryly.

Lachlan laughed. "You've been with the Doctor and Renie too long, Holmes, to be talkin' such nonsense. By the way, what's with the whole ghost thing, anyhow? I mean, until today, no one's actually been assaulted by the thing – and we're only guessing that whoever's behind the ghost affair shut you and the Doctor in that icebox upstairs to keep you two away from Renie and the boy. That's still not a really dreadful crime – the ghost really hasn't done much."

I frowned, for that was yet another thing that was bothering me about this case. Indeed, until we had arrived at the castle, nothing at all had happened that would be harmful to any of its occupants. I had to find the links connecting two 'accidents' involving Lachlan and Watson, a ghostly woman stalking the halls at night, a phosphorescent fog and a chill breeze, someone locking me and Watson in the tower to prevent our reaching him while he shut Renie and Alfie into a small room…all into one long chain.

We had a ghostly woman. We had a ghostly fog and a chilled breeze – which I had already established were most definitely of this world, from someone who had at least a basic knowledge of chemistry. A train near-accident and a cab accident. An imprisonment in the tower and shutting the American and the child into a tiny room below stairs.

Watson, Lachlan, Renie, and Alfie had all been attacked fairly pointedly…why had I escaped thus far, besides the tower room just now?

I voiced my puzzlements to Lachlan, and his blonde brows knitted together in deep thought. "I don't understand why, for instance, Renie and I were targeted – this isn't our case," he said slowly.

"Exactly," I replied, drumming my fingers on my arm, "exactly. And why have I escaped from the things this ghost has been doing? One would think I should be the primary target."

"Not if whoever it is wants you to drop the case," Lachlan said soberly, his eyes losing the twinkle and fading to a murky deep blue. "You've no cause to pretend with me, Holmes – we both know the only way to really get you to change your methods is bringing danger to the Doctor. That first accident was a warning, I'd stake my reputation on it."

"And then when I didn't heed the warning, they moved to you? No, that is not logical, Lachlan. It would have been far easier to just follow us to the castle and do something like they did tonight, if they really wanted me to drop the case, not to chase after you and Haight to Vienna."

"What then?"

"That's exactly what is bothering me," I sighed, tapping my lips distractedly with my forefinger, "it is almost as if this perpetrator cannot make up his mind on the affair – for the links I am trying to forge into a chain here are so varied, there is no consistency in them."

"But why has the ghost been doing these things anyway?" Lachlan demanded, "if he wanted to kill us, there are easier ways to do it than pushing us in front of trains and cabs."

"I think for right now he is merely trying to frighten us…hence targeting the most vulnerable of our little group tonight," I said thoughtfully, "and hence the ghostly fog the other night. If he wanted to kill me or Haight, or both, it would have been just as easy to pipe arsine gas or some fatal chemical into the room other than phosphorus and dry ice."

"Dry ice?"

"Well, that's the least complicated way to make a realistic fog – and a chilly vapour, too," I said absently, my mind already running a hundred other tracks, "I would imagine that to be what was used."

"But where the deuce would this ghost be gettin' dry ice?" Lachlan demanded.

Good point…where would he get it? It would definitely not be used on a regular basis in the castle, so it had to have been brought into the castle from somewhere…which also brought up the question, was our perpetrator living in the castle or perhaps out in the woods nearby, or in the town?

I doubted the former, as it was bitterly cold – unless the Count had some little-frequented furnished outbuildings on the estate somewhere. I would need to ask tomorrow, and perhaps Watson and I could ride out to look at them.

The town seemed rather out of the way – I could not see such an intelligent man as this ghost had to be to pull off these stunts being content with being no closer than a two hour drive of the castle. No, surely the man (or woman) was staying here in the place.

But if that were true, then was it someone we already knew? Strauss? The man was indeed insufferable and rude to the point of being in extremely poor taste, but he had shown no more animosity toward me than he had to the Count. Besides, he was just too obvious a suspect. Though, I admitted, that could be a very clever cover. Well…

Lady Cecilia? She was quite intelligent, I had observed…but she had no motive in evoking an old legend, for she was the one threatened. And besides, the Count had told us that she was the one who implored him to come to us. And while I had been engaged by criminals in the past to investigate their own crimes, there would be no sense in coming all the way to London from Bavaria when LeVillard or any other of my Continental rivals would do just as well and be far less threatening to the scheme's safety.

This new chap, Sir August Konig? For a nobleman, he seemed fairly amiable. Rather nondescript, actually. He was the Count's cousin, and their relation seemed perfectly amicable, no strain whatsoever. They shared an interest in hunting, and I really could deduce nothing more interesting than that from his rather blasé appearance. Left-handed, had never been married, had at some point been or studied acting (probably in an amateur way, being the nobility he was), highly intelligent, etc., etc. Just the average foreign nobility, no more and no less.

His sister, the Lady Claudia. I grinned despite myself as I thought of the woman's atrocious attraction to my dear friend. Poor Watson, half his time here had been spent in taking care of patients, and what remained of it was spent in avoiding the woman's attentions. She was extremely annoying and in rather bad taste, but I honestly could see no possible motive she would have for wanting to evoke an old legend. And despite my dislike of her (more out of loyalty to Watson than anything else) I really did not see her either being capable of or being willing to nearly kill two men over anything. And besides, she was far too large to have been the ghostly woman I had seen the other night and the bridal ghost had appeared for several days before she and her brother had arrived at the castle.

That left the Count himself and the staff. I discounted the idea that the nobleman was behind the affair for the same reasons I believed Lady Cecilia to be uninvolved; it simply was not logical. Besides, whilst a good sort for a nobleman, the Count did not strike me as being over-bright and I doubted he could mastermind a scheme like this.

And, I had forgotten, the Count, Strauss, and Sir August had all been absent from the castle tonight - had not yet returned. Lehmann had informed us that when a snowstorm blew up like this one and the Count was out in it, he would go to one of his outbuildings in the woods on the estate. As the men had not come back tonight, that must have been where they went.

The staff…was considerable. Besides Lehmann, Mueller, and Keller, there were a half-dozen groomsmen that I had barely met, and a couple dozen more maids, cooks, and manservants. The Count was obviously not in financial difficulties, as he could very well have gotten along with a third of the staff he employed.

Rather than having no suspects, perhaps I was rather served with a plethora of them. Either way, that angle was not helping me in the least.

I glanced up to see that Lachlan had fallen asleep while I pondered – and no wonder, as it was now well after midnight. I turned out the gas and left the room, stopping next door to peek in on Watson, who was now snoring heavily and obviously not going to wake up any time soon, and on Alfie, who was also snoring, his head twitching on the pillow and muttering to himself in a rather slurred Cockney.

I laughed at the similarity between the two of them before making my way back to my room, where I threw several pillows onto the floor after building up the fire, and finally sat and lit my pipe with a sigh of satisfaction.

Perhaps I should attack the case from the angle of motive, as Lachlan had suggested.

Motive for reviving the legend. The most obvious, of course, would be to break off the marriage. Why?

Idiot! I had neglected to ask the Count if his will would be altered when he married Lady Cecilia! There was the most obvious motive staring me in the face this entire time, and I had completely passed it by!

This case…it really was destroying my faculties, wasn't it…

_You are the most logical man I know. _Watson's voice rang in my head unbidden with a clarity that almost startled me.

Well, at least one of us thought so. I must not allow my weariness or mental instability to cause me to make such a ridiculously juvenile blunder again. I should have a long talk with the Count in the morning about the will.

Then if money were not the motive, then the marriage itself could be the cause. Someone did not want it to take place – to marry the lady instead of the Count, then? Or vice-versa?

Either way, I could do no more until morning. I stretched my cramped limbs with a small sigh, suddenly very weary in both mind and body. Watson was not the only one who needed a good long sleep…it was so warm here by the fire…

_A blinding, searing flash of yellow lightning – why is everything so much brighter when at sea? – startles me, and I jump, skidding for a moment on the rain-swept deck, the precious phial I carry in my hand teetering in my grip for a moment…_

_But I clutch it closer, for nothing shall make me lose this - _nothing_, I think, as the thunder that followed the lightning nearly deafens me and seems to rock the entire ship along with the crashing waves. I can barely see in the thick wet darkness, but I push onwards anyway…I must get back…_

_Suddenly, ahead…a flash of brilliant white, glowing like a beacon on the wind-and-rain-swept deck. A woman, in a bridal gown and veil, pointing a finger at me, a weird, unearthly glow emanating from her and not being extinguished by the driving storm's fury. She means danger, I can feel it…but I cannot stop or turn round, I have to get back! I must!_

_She points at me and swoops toward me with a shriek that blends itself into the wind in one long maddening howl, and I gasp and duck into the shelter of an alcove as she rushes by in a chilling, icy blast of wind, far colder than even that Atlantic water I was in a few days previously._

_My legs are shaking with fear and cold, but I cannot stay and hide…I must get back. I run for it, slipping on the wet deck and nearly falling, but I run, I have to run, I _must_ run…_

_Behind me the wind howls and shrieks – or is it that horrible apparition? – but I run, down the companionway, through the two corridors, down the next set of steps. _

_Suddenly the chill runs over me once more and I look back – she is chasing me, that greenish glow is seeping around her and toward me, the edges curling up at me, reaching for the phial in my hands…She must not take it!_

_I admit to panic at that point and sprint for the door down the corridor – I must make that door, there I shall be safe, I have to make it…the glowing fog is wrapping round my ankles now, wisping and curling upwards, upwards…_

_I throw open the door, and the woman gives a horrible ear-piercing shriek such as I have never heard from mortal ears, and then I slam the door closed on the instant and fumble for the lock, gasping for breath and panting as I set the phial on the table with shaking hands. _

_I have made it. I have the phial, intact, all it will take is one injection and he shall be fine, Brown said he would be…_

_The woman – or is it the wind? – screams at me through the door. A weird, unearthly language that I cannot understand, but it means evil, I can feel that. _

_I check on him, lying motionless on the bunk. There is no change._

_"Only a moment longer, my dear fellow," I whisper gently, laying a hand over his cold fingers for a moment. _

_Nothing will stop me now, I have the cure…nothing _can_ stop me now._

_I snatch an empty syringe from his bag and turn back toward the table and the phial, preparing to fill the syringe with the cure that will save his life._

_No! That eerie green fog is wisping under the door, curling round the table legs, reaching, groping for something…it flows suddenly upward in a green roiling mass, reaching…searching…I must stop it, but I cannot move!_

_My legs are frozen to the floor – why can I not move them? I struggle desperately, then look downwards…they are caught by long tendrils of the glowing mass, and my trousers are now flickering in a greenish light. I panic, calling for help and trying desperately to move, but the fog keeps me prisoner._

_And the table legs are becoming obscured with the unearthly substance…a long wispy tendril snakes out from the cloud, wrapping round the phial – the phial! No!_

_I must have screamed the word aloud, for I can hear maniacal female laughter from the other side of the door, a chilling, icy shriek of glee as the fog wraps round the phial, lifting it from the table, taking it from me…from Watson…_

_I frantically thrash about, trying to wrench myself free from the stuff, I must stop this, I have to have that phial – _Watson_ has to have that phial!_

_My heart rams into my throat hard enough to choke me as the green tendrils grasp the precious phial, representing the only thing in this world I would gladly give my life for…wrapping round it gleefully, levitating it…floating above the table…higher…higher…_

_Then dropping it._

_Dear God, no!_

_There is a shatter and a smashing tinkle as the phial breaks into a thousand pieces, and my heart breaks with it into a dying mess of shattered hopes._

_The woman's laughter rings in my ears, shrieking, laughing, as the fog at last releases me from its grip, leaving my legs numb and icy-cold as I shake all over…_

_It is over, there is no hope now…_

_The fog roils around me mockingly without grasping me as I stumble forward, my stomach heaving at the sight of the solution now dripping off the edges of the table to freeze into crystals on its way to the floor._

_On one side, that woman's cackling, witch-like laughter deafens my left ear…on my right, the suddenly choking, laboured breathing of the only friend I have in the world fills the other. _

_Now he is dying, dying because of this ghost._

_Suddenly the laboured breathing chokes, falters…then stops altogether. _

_I gasp and look up, trying to keep control of both my emotions and my stomach as the sickening realisation of what just happened crashes over me like a wave of pure ice._

_He's gone. Gone…_

…_I can no longer hear that choking breathing, not even a whisper. I've failed._

_Behind me, the manic laughter on the other side of the door increases with a howl of triumph…_

I shot straight up in bed with a choked cry of despair, gasping for a breath…

Wait, it was not my bed; I had fallen asleep next to the hearth. I was sitting against cold stone by a now-dead fire, feeling sweat dripping off my forehead and my entire frame shaking as if almost convulsing. I swallowed hard on a wave of burning bile that rose in the back of my throat and lowered my head toward my knees.

A dream…just another horrible dream…_it _was_ just a dream, wasn't it? Please?_

A tiny part of my brain wondered why my mind was doing this to me. How could I expect to solve this case if I could not control my own horrible imagination?

But the automatic part of my brain had already caused me to stagger to my feet and I lit the gas with a far more unsteady hand than I would have liked anyone ever to see.

It was just a dream, _just a dream_, I was here in my own room, not on the _Friesland_…I all but chanted the mantra to myself over and over, but still the images replayed in my mind's eye every time I so much as blinked. I stumbled over to my dressing gown and threw it on, shivering violently and glancing about, my peripheral vision playing tricks upon me with the shadows and silvery moonlight.

The room seemed so dark, so oppressive, even with the gas on – I had to get out…

I stumbled into the corridor and took a deep bracing breath as the frigid air caught in my lungs and almost froze the perspiration rolling down my neck, the icy blast giving the effect of a sound slap in the face and bringing my senses back firmly and coldly to the present.

But still…I hesitated for a moment, not willing to admit to weakness, but finally I cracked open Watson's door and slipped noiselessly into the warm room, wanting to reassure myself that it _had_ indeed been a dream.

I crept silently over to his bed, to find him curled up snugly under the blankets, in the same position I had left him a few hours ago, still sleeping soundly and unaware that I was standing over him, still _breathing_, breathing perfectly normally and rhythmically. _Thank heaven_. The relief that swept over me made me feel quite ashamed that I had been so frightened by a figment of my imagination.

I would not wake him. Nothing was more important than his getting some uninterrupted sleep. Besides, he had had to deal with enough of my petty psychological issues as it was.

I suddenly felt very limp, very exhausted, and I collapsed on the couch in front of his still-blazing fire, staring into the flickering flames as if mesmerized. I should be up and about far before he would in the morning, so he would never know that I had been so ridiculously weak that I did not want to sleep in my own room after this horrible vision.

But even if he did, I knew he would never mind my doing so at any rate, and would not ask embarrassing questions if I did not wish him to.

I sighed and put my head on my arm wearily, hoping desperately that no more ghosts of the past – or the present, for that matter – would see fit to haunt me the rest of the night. I was not certain how much more of this I could stand without breaking.


	21. The Ghosts You Chase

_I wouldn't describe myself as lacking in confidence, but I would just say that ... the ghosts you chase you never catch._

_- John Malkovich (b. 1953)_

* * *

_**Watson**_

"I was surprised when you did not ask me this before, Herr Holmes…In fact, I am becoming increasingly concerned with your ability to handle the situation."

The count laid the file containing his will down on the polished surface of his study desk, his rather critical eyes and poised brows fixed on Holmes's face, which was as unreadable as stone.

"Lehmann tells me that you are having nightmares."

Holmes shifted a little, but took this development in stride, reaching out for the will.

"Every man has nightmares, Count." Holmes said quietly. "Especially with an occupation such as mine. I guarantee you that it is doing nothing to affect my work." _That was a downright lie._ "And nothing will turn me from the purpose of discovering what is behind these spectres." _That was true_.

Despite the reassurance, the Count gave my friend a somewhat skeptical look as he took the folder.

"I have another question also, Count, about the other buildings upon your estate. Such as the lodge that you and the other gentlemen resided in last night?"

"You wish to see them?"

"Yes."

The count nodded, apparently pleased by this return to action. "Very well, Herr Holmes, I will show them to you myself. I am engaged for the morning but will have some time this afternoon to assist you."

Holmes bowed slightly as the Count turned back to his paperwork, and we left the office. I knew better than to speak to the detective when he wore that particular exasperated expression.

_**Holmes**_

We spent the better part of that day in rather boring footwork – Lachlan took on the job of keeping an eye on Alfie as he was still not overly mobile, and we left the two of them with Haight in a sitting room with the ladies, regaling them with stories of our friends' adventures in Bombay.

Watson and I went out with the Count that afternoon (and that insufferable Strauss chap insisted upon coming along) to ride and see several of the outbuildings on the massive estate. I was quite surprised to find just indeed how large the place was – one could easily become lost in the hundred-odd acres of snowy woods surrounding the castle.

None of the buildings had been touched other than by the Count, apparently, which ruled out the possibility of our ghostly visitor living there; he must be in the castle, in all probability living somewhere in a passage we had not discovered as of yet.

Strauss made some snide remark about 'wasting time on pretty theories', and had Watson's hands not been full of a very frisky horse's reins I believe he might had throttled the fellow, to my great amusement.

The Lady Cecilia's brother carried that vein into the dinner conversation, and by the time the dessert had been served I was thoroughly tired of his rudeness, and both Watson and Haight were shooting him dangerous glares that he appeared to be thoroughly oblivious to.

I gave both of them a warning look, for now was not the time to make an enemy out of anyone – but Sir August Konig beat both of them to the punch by saying "Strauss. You do have a rather one-track mind, do you not? For heaven's sake come off it!" in a boredly irritated spiel of snobbish German…thereby netting him instant friends in the person of my biographer – and me, for that matter.

After dinner, I stopped Lady Cecilia on her way out of the door. Watson came up behind me as I spoke.

"Lady Cecilia. With your and the Count's permissions, I should like to ask a favour."

"Certainly, Herr Holmes, if it will aid your investigation," she said, glancing between Watson and me.

"I should like to spend the night in your room, in hopes that this 'ghost' will make its appearance there. I am most weary of waiting passively for it to show; it is time to take some more aggressive action. Is there another room in which you could make do for one night?"

The lady's eyes brightened. "Certainly, Herr Holmes. I am at your disposal, if it will assist you in any way."

"Good. Then please retire at your usual hour but to a different room, with anything you may require. One or both of us will then spend the night in your chamber, and we shall see if this ghost appears again. If it does not, we shall continue to stand vigil until it does."

"_Danke_, Herr Holmes," the lady said softly, "you will be careful?"

"Quite. _Vielen Dank_, Lady Claudia," I said with a small bow, and the woman moved on to join the Count in the conservatory.

"Another 'Speckled Band' vigil, eh?" Watson's voice sounded behind me as I watched the other members of the party leave the dining hall.

I turned to face him. "Watson, I need you to do something for me."

He blinked but smiled at me. "You have but to name it, you know that."

"I want you to stand guard near that tower that seems to be a focal point in this mystery, in that hall with the bookcases. I shall take the lady's chamber with Haight or Lachlan."

"Lachlan needs to remain in bed, Holmes," he said firmly, "he cannot be ghost-chasing in that condition. You could have him be a lookout but nothing active."

"Then I shall have him remain on guard in our corridor in case the woman shows there," I said thoughtfully, "and give him a police whistle. Then he will be able to signal us without doing anything strenuous."

Watson nodded. "That will do. I don't like you being in that chamber though, with that ghostly woman on the loose."

I clapped his shoulder as we moved to join the others. "Haight has a revolver as you do, Watson, and though he may not be my companion of choice, I really do need a man I trust at the other end of this affair."

He smiled at that, the worry leaving his eyes, and we entered the conservatory to find Haight and Lachlan to tell them of our plans.

"I want you to keep Alfie with you, though," I said as an afterthought, "send him for me if anything happens, I do not want you tackling that ghost alone."

"I rather believe I am a match for any woman, ghostly or otherwise," he said with a smirk.

* * *

I glanced at my watch impatiently. Well after one – always before the ghosts had appeared before midnight; it seemed that we were destined to not see one after all this evening. I stifled a yawn and shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed, glancing at the young reporter who was dozing in the chair across the room.

Suddenly there was a clattering of small feet in the corridor and we both bolted upright as the door swung open and a small figure stumbled in, bellowing for me in a Cockney so rapid I could not understand him.

"Alfie! Calm down, speak slowly!" I snapped, my brow creasing – for if the boy were alone…

"We seen 'er, Mr. 'Olmes, the ghost," the lad panted breathlessly, his green eyes staring wildly from me to Haight, "th' doctor sent me ta fetch yew while 'e took off after 'er. 'Urry!"

Blast it! While I had no doubt Watson could take care of himself, I still did not relish the idea of his stumbling about the castle in the dark after an apparition that probably was responsible for trying to push him under a train.

Alfie darted from the room and I dashed after him with Haight on my heels. As I thought – the lad was heading through the corridors towards our rooms. We passed by that wing, however, and on into the hall where I had lost the apparition the first time we had seen it.

"She came roight outa th' wall there, Mr. 'Olmes, and when she saw the Doctor she run off tha' way," Alfie panted, "an' 'e took off after 'er like a bat out o' 'ell, roight off tha' way!"

I dashed out of the other end of the hall, to be faced with three possible ways to go in separate corridors…which one…

Behind me, Haight shone the lantern into each, and within a few feet of the third I espied Watson's small black notebook he always kept in his inside pocket. Good man.

I scooped it up on my way as we made our way through a dark, tapestried corridor that apparently led to an unused bedroom wing, if I remembered correctly. The passage wound on and on until finally it ended into a cross-hallway at the other end of the wing.

Only this time, there was nothing to indicate which direction the woman and my friend had gone, and no sign of them anywhere.

"Watson?" I bellowed as loudly as I could into the darkness, but I could hear no answer.

"If he didn't leave a clue, then perhaps he did not get this far, Holmes," Haight spoke up behind me quietly.

"Search the rooms along the corridor," I snapped, whirling about and trying the nearest doorknob. Locked.

Within moments I had the door picked open and threw it wide, to reveal a small sitting room with a bedroom beyond. No signs of either Watson or the woman ghost.

Haight took one side of the hall with Alfie and I the other, and we methodically searched every room, which only took a few minutes as there were not that many. We ended where we started and none the wiser – they had simply disappeared completely.

I shouted again for my friend, trying to tamp down on that unease that threatened to cloud my judgment…there was no cause for alarm just yet…

Alfie was clutching at my trouser leg, shaking, and I absently patted his head as Haight's tenor joined my voice in another shout.

"Where the devil did he go?" the reporter asked after there had been no answer to our cries.

I closed my eyes for a moment. "If he's not in any of these rooms, and he left no indication at the other corridor, then the only possibility is that he's…trapped in some passage somewhere along here that I don't know about – there was not one on the map the Count gave us."

Haight turned a ghastly white and for a moment I thought he should be ill. "My God, Holmes…"

"He's not claustrophobic, Haight," I hastened to add, "and besides we have no idea if that's even what happened. At any rate, somewhere between this corridor and the other he disappeared. Alfie, can you do something for me?"

"Yes, sir," the boy whispered shakily.

"Run back to my room and get my walking stick – the heavy one, the one with lead in the top. And tell Mr. Lachlan to go to the Lady Cecilia's room and keep watch, the ghost may still be loose in this place and might be heading back that direction."

The boy nodded and scampered off through the halls, and I turned to Haight. "These walls are a foot thick – our only hope is to find that passage and perhaps by getting close we can hear him or vice versa."

I swallowed hard, a chill running over me that was not from the frigid air of the corridor. Pray heaven I was wrong, and he was merely following the woman through the castle still…but all my instincts told me otherwise.

I was very grateful when the lad returned in a moment with my heaviest stick. I hoped it would hold together until I found a passage.

I started with the hall itself, striking my stick on the stones methodically, feeling perspiration beading on my forehead despite the chill of the air around me. Alfie tagged at my heels, and Haight followed with the lantern close beside me. We went all the way to the other corridor without hearing any difference in the stones. When I reached the end, Haight looked at me with despair.

"Other side," I growled, banging the stick soundly on the stones one after the other.

I had nearly given up in despair as well when suddenly…as I struck one of the large stones, it sounded more hollow than the others. Haight heard it as well, for he grabbed my arm in his excitement.

I slammed the stick's weighted head one more into the stone, and indeed it was hollow.

"Watson?" I bellowed, my mouth only a few inches from the stone.

I jumped and dropped the stick with a clang when there was an answering voice – faint through the stone barrier but it was there, and quite unmistakable. I pressed my ear to the cold stone to catch the words.

"Holmes!"

Alfie squealed and picking up my stick banged on the wall in his excitement.

"Holmes, I can't get this door open…closed on me…can't see a thing!" the faint cry came through the door.

"Is there another end to the passage?" I yelled back through the wall.

"She closed some other door…behind her…can't get out that way…"

"Feel around and find the latch, Watson!"

"Can't…been trying…she opened it from out there…I couldn't see how…" I could barely hear his voice now, blast this thick stone.

"Watson, I can't hear you, what?"

"Can't…can't find it…" was the faint reply.

"All right, old chap, hold on. Haight, help me, if that woman ghost opened it within the instant then it can't be all that hard to find," I said quickly, running my hands over the stones on each side of the one I was standing in front of.

For a tense few moments nothing happened, until suddenly Alfie tugged on my trousers with an excited squeal.

"Mr. 'Olmes!"

I glanced down, and sure enough, at the lad's shoulder level was a small indentation in the stonework. I pushed on it, and it gave and slid back to become an inset handle in the stone. Odd…I gave the thing a solid yank and almost tumbled backwards, for the door swung open easily; it would have to, if a woman could get it open so quickly. Why then could I not hear Watson very well…

But I did not stand there thinking about the matter – I swung the door (I could see now that it was thin stone backed with wood) wide open and was appalled at a sudden rush of very foul close air that set me gasping just at one breath of it.

"Watson!"

I caught him as he staggered out of the darkness into my arms, breathing shallowly and slumping against me as a coughing fit wracked his frame, shaking dizzily with the effort of choking the harsh crisp air into his straining lungs.

"Why didn't you tell me the atmosphere was going bad!?" I demanded harshly, my horror at what he had gone through the last half-hour causing my voice to shake almost as badly as he was.

"Wouldn't have…helped anything," he gasped, rubbing his eyes and taking a long, deep breath gratefully. "My word, Holmes – if you hadn't found me…another half-hour…"

"Don't say it, Doctor," Haight shivered, staring into the small dark chamber with a long shudder, which my shaken friend echoed.

After a few moments Watson took a ragged breath and finally glanced up at me with what was probably supposed to be a reassuring half-smile.

"Are you all right, my dear fellow?" I asked softly, seeing that he was only just starting to breathe normally again. After a moment I received a small nod, and he forestalled the questions he knew I was going to ask.

"I followed her…into the hall, she was several yards ahead of me – pretty fast for a woman, Holmes," he stopped to take a breath, mopping his forehead, "and – she stopped, put her hand down, and then the thing opened outward. I made it to the opening just as the door started to close and shouldered my way in, but the thing shut behind me and I – I heard it click."

He coughed for a moment, his hands on my arms clenching at the convulsive movement, and then went on.

"I tried to follow the woman, but about ten feet in there is another door, Holmes, and it too was locked. I couldn't go anywhere so I came back here, hoping you would start looking for me when Alfie reached you."

The child wrapped his arms round Watson's legs shakily, and my friend's haggard face softened and he patted the boy's ginger head gently. "Thank you, lad."

Alfie nodded, glancing up at both of us.

Despite Watson's calm attitude, I could tell from his silent quivering that he was a bit unnerved by the whole escapade.

"Can you wait here with Haight and Alfie, Watson, while I check and see if I can get that door open so we can find where this leads?"

"I can, but I'm not going to. Give me that lantern, Haight, and stay here in case the door closes on us again," he replied, though he swallowed hard and his voice tremoured slightly.

"But Doctor – "

"Alfie, stay here with Mr. Haight," he ordered, and taking the lantern, shone it into the small dark space, still horribly close and stuffy. "lead on, Holmes."

"Good man." I bent to inspect the corridor door first. "A spring lock. Shuts automatically to conceal the passage from the corridor."

"Certainly works well," he muttered, shining the lantern on the other door, some ten feet into the passage. I inspected it as well.

"This is not a spring lock – it has a keyhole. The woman must have locked it from the other side," I said, inserting my own lock-pick into the hole. It was an extremely old lock and not very complicated; within fifteen seconds we were climbing a steep and extremely narrow flight of stairs that seemed unending.

Haight would certainly have been ill had he been with us, for the passage was so narrow that even my thin shoulders were nearly touching the walls, and Watson's stronger build actually was.

"One thing, Holmes, that was very odd," his voice floated eerily out of the flickering light behind me as he shone it on my feet, the words dully hitting the stone around us and dropping like a lead weight in the muffled space.

"What's that, my dear fellow?"

"Well," he went on, and I could hear the puzzlement in his voice, "that woman ghost. You know the legend is supposed to date from the medieval days?"

"Yes, it is. What about it?"

"Well, if someone were truly reviving the legend, you would expect them to keep to the thing as close as possible, would you not?"

"Yes, what are you driving at, Watson? Be careful, this step is broken."

"Thank you. Well, just that I was expecting the woman's bridal gown and so on to be of a medieval style. The one this ghost was wearing was quite modern in both fit and cut, Holmes."

I stopped on the stairs. "A modern cut and style?"

"Very, I think this season's style. Not that I am an expert, Holmes," he hastened to add, and I grinned as I could almost feel the blush on his face warming up the chilly air.

"At least you are more knowledgeable than I in such matters, Watson," I replied dryly, hastening up the winding, twisting stairs once more, with my mind whirring.

A modern dress…that bespoke either of carelessness in not sticking to the legend, or else that the ghost had not bargained on anyone as fast and as perceptive as my dear friend getting close enough to her to see the fact. Odd, very odd…

"Hold up, Watson. There's another door at the top here."

I could hear his heavy breathing behind me, and though he had not complained I knew the climb had been rather rough on him. I fumbled for a doorknob and finally located it, turning it cautiously.

"Not locked."

"Here, I can't get round you in this tiny space." I felt the cold metal of his faithful revolver in my hand and pointed it forward, turning the knob and shoving the rather heavy door open…

And stopped with amazement.

"What in the world..."

"Well, we now know how to get in and out of that passage in this blasted tower room," Watson said wearily, sitting down on one of the crates with a long sigh.


	22. The Past Is a Ghost

_"__The past is a __ghost__, the future a dream, and all we ever have is now.__"_

_- Bill Cosby_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

I glared at the familiar setting, for I was thoroughly frustrated now. What the blazes did this tower-attraction have to do with this ghost? Why had she come here instead of the Lady Cecilia's room? And why was this passage not on the information the Count had given us, if it were so easy to find?

I stalked over to the narrow set of slitted windows, glancing out over the snowy expanse below. The moon had finally decided to put in an appearance tonight, and the entire courtyard and surrounding countryside was lit up in a silver glow, dotted with black shadows.

But just then something caught my eye…not grey or black, not actually white…more…more luminescent, like that phosphorus-laced fog the other night. What in the world –

"Watson, come here!"

In an instant he was standing beside me, glancing out at the ground just beyond the moat.

"Holmes, is that –"

"Good, I'm not seeing things if you are seeing it as well."

"The legend didn't mention anything about a ghostly horseman!" he gasped, staring as I was after the slowly-trotting horse and rider below us, on the edge of the woods.

It was indeed a ghostly horseman, for the figure atop the silvery animal was bathed in the same glowing light that my brain firmly registered as mere phosphorus, despite its absolutely freakish appearance. It was _not_ a ghost, merely someone pretending to be one. But what was its game in trotting round the castle like that?

"Holmes, this gets more complicated every night!" Watson said dismally, sinking down on a nearby crate. "Now we've got not only a ghostly bride, a glowing fog, but now a ghost horse and rider?"

"Would you rather it be as it was at first, with no apparitions whatsoever and us dying of boredom?"

"Yes!"

I laughed, watching as the ghost – or whatever it was – vanished into the black woods as a chilling blast of wind hit the slit of a window and sent a cold shiver down my spine. It really was freezing up here.

"Come on, old chap, Haight and Alfie will be wondering if we've been carried off by a ghost," I said, starting for the door of the tower room, only stopping when I tried the knob and then remembered.

"Blazes. It locks on the outside, and she must have locked it after she passed through it. We'll have to go back the way we came," I snarled irritably, very glad though that we had not shut the passage door behind us when we came out – that would have been thoroughly embarrassing, having to be rescued twice from the same tower room.

Watson started to his feet but suddenly fell back to the crate with a silent cry of pain and began massaging his bad leg. Poor chap, he had done more running and climbing today than any day so far, and it had been a good portion of it up steps – and we had four flights down to go yet.

"Here," I said gently, offering him my arm and hoping he would not be offended by the gesture; he could be confoundedly stubborn and proud at times.

If he was, he was still grateful for my help in getting to his feet, and we started toward the open passage door.

"I'll go first, in case your leg gives out," I said, taking the lead with the lantern.

"If it does, you'd best be ready to make a crash landing at the bottom," he chuckled from behind me. I smiled, glad that his humour remained unscathed from the evening's horrors.

"Wait a moment, Watson," I said as a thought struck me.

"What is it?"

"I'm wondering how in the world there's a ventilation in this chamber – there would have to be, for that fog to spread as it did…but I can see no windows, can you?"

"Considering the fact that it's pitch-dark other than that lantern you're shining at my feet, no."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Watson."

"Then don't ask ridiculous questions. Shine that lantern above us instead of trying to find the windows the hard way, by touch!"

I grinned at his grouchiness (another byproduct of little sleep) and shone the lantern above our heads. Ah, that was why we had not seen them at first – they were boarded up and covered with thin black fabric; nearly invisible in the darkness.

"What's this?" Watson asked absently, seeing a long black string coming down the wall. He reached around me and tugged on it, and instantly I felt a rush of freezing wind that blew the lantern out and plunged the staircase into complete darkness before he hastily dropped the rope with a curse. As the door had already shut behind us, it was pitch-black in the passage; and even were we to open the door, barely any light would come in from that dark room.

"Well done, Watson." I growled, feeling in my pockets for a match. Blast.

"I'm sorry!"

"I'm out of matches – you?"

"I don't have any on me," he said in a subdued voice.

"Wonderful."

"I didn't know it would extinguish the lantern!"

"It isn't your fault, my dear fellow, I should have held it down from the window," I sighed irritably. "Well, at least we now know how this perpetrator created the cold wind – the boards on that window act as a one-piece shield that swings to the side. All one has to do is tug on the rope, as you so ably demonstrated, and the wind whipping round the tower does the rest. Absurdly simple. Right, let's go."

"Oh blazes, we have to go all that way back down in complete darkness?!"

His voice shook ever so slightly, and I did not blame him, for I was fast becoming a bit leery of the black closeness of the staircase myself – and I had not been shut in a dark room with no oxygen tonight either.

"Put your hand on my shoulder and the other on the wall, old chap, and we'll go along like that, eh?" I said, guiding his fumbling hand to grip my jacket tightly. "And be careful, these steps are incredibly uneven."

Indeed, they were hard enough to maneuver in the dark with two good legs, much less with a bad one, and it took us a rather long while to get to the bottom of the stairs. But finally we stumbled out of the dark passage back into the hall, where Haight was pacing nervously and Alfie was half-asleep, absently beating a steady tattoo on the wall with my Penang-lawyer. I hastily re-lit the lantern with a match from Haight's book.

"Well, Mr. 'Olmes?" our Irregular asked, latching onto my worn friend with a still-worried glance, broken by an enormous yawn.

"It leads to that tower room," I said pensively, swinging the door shut on the passage with an audible click, "so that is one mystery solved."

"Yew oll roight, Doctor?" Alfie asked sleepily, looking up at Watson with a drowsy frown.

"Perfectly," he lied, swinging the child up into his arms with just a slight wince that only I saw.

"Good," the lad whispered, promptly falling asleep on Watson's shoulder and beginning to snore softly.

My friend smiled very tiredly at me over the boy's head and we began to walk slowly back to our chambers.

"Haight, if you'd be so kind, would you fetch Lachlan and tell him we can do no more tonight – once seen, this ghostly lady never returns for a second visit," I said in a low tone so as not to awaken the sleeping child.

The reporter nodded and, as we reached our corridor, I handed him the light and he set off toward the Lady Cecilia's room while we entered Alfie's. Watson put the boy on the bed, gently disengaging Alfie's arms from round his neck without wakening him, pulled off his shoes, and then I pulled up the blankets and turned down the gas as we exited quietly.

"Get some sleep, old fellow."

"I'd planned on it," he returned dryly, throwing a tired grin over his shoulder at me as he entered his room. "Check on Lachlan for me?"

"Of course. Good night, Watson," I called softly after him as he stumbled into his room and shut the door.

I turned to go into my room but his door opened once more.

"What's the matter?"

"It's freezing in there," he gasped with a shiver, "and apparently Mueller overlooked my room when he restocked the wood this evening - I've only one log left."

"Hold on." I darted into my room and filled the carrier with enough logs for the night, bringing it back into the cold corridor. He thanked me profusely, after which I pushed him none too gently into his room for a night's sleep at last.

Before I made it back to my room, I was met at the cross-corridor by Lachlan and his young friend. The midshipman was leaning on Haight's shoulder, clutching at his side and breathing harshly.

"You are infernally lucky Watson just went to bed," I hissed, taking the stubborn seaman's free arm as we made our way to his room for a short recap of the night's events, "he would murder you if he found you looking like this!"

_**Watson**_

_It was the smell that first assailed me, clogging my nostrils and choking the very breath out of my throat, bringing with it an unearthly fear that I had hoped never to feel again, a fear born of unending desperation and apprehension, of nerves forever braced for an attack and for the enemy._

_It was never the fight that had scared me so much, for I was not the man to ride into the very ranks of their enemy to face their swords flashing brightly in the sun, or the crude lead pellets of enemy guns that cut through men mercilessly._

_I had seen several battles but the most of what I understood of them was the sound, the sounds of men shouting with bloodlust, shouting and calling ideals and war-cries that supposedly stood for noble ideas._

_It was never long before these cries became those of another kind. _

_No longer shouts of able healthy men…but the moans of the dying. Men crying without breath and boys calling for their mothers as though they expected them to come and offer relief as had been the cases in their childhoods…but this was no longer a simple game that they were playing. It was real…a potent reality that none of us had ever imagined and considered. _

_Thousands of brave, bright young lads called in to fight for a cause that they barely understood, their eyes alight with promises of glory and ideality, only to be cut down as so much meat._

_And that was when I was called for…to do my utmost to fix them with the limited supplies that we had, and my constant companion was that smell, the clotting clogging smell of blood boiling in the sun…of death. It was there when I ate, and when I slept…for I never seemed to be able to wash it off of my hands. _

_And with the smell came images, pictures that had burned themselves into my mind with remarkable clarity, never ever to be forgotten no matter how I had tried. Images of the bloated corpses of comrades, beyond help, ones I had been unable to save. Images of thin, starved, haunted individuals as they marched past, made to seem even more thin by the waves of heat that filled the air. Of cracked, bleeding lips, of dried wells, of drought-starved horses that were shadows of the proud arch-necked beasts they had been. Of men reduced to thievery and greed, more like animals than men as they strove to fight for their very existence. My own appearance when I had seen it for the first time after a campaign, a wretch with haunted eyes that I did not recognize._

_Oh the eyes…the eyes were the worst, for they were all of them haunted. Hollow and scarred from seeing things and witnessing horrors that no man, let alone boys, should have to see. Eyes bright with tears and with the rather manic hope and grim humor that we employed to keep our sanity intact…the eyes of the dead…glazed and empty, signifying that these were only the shells of men now, husks of what they had been, blue eyes and green, brown and hazel…eyes that I had striven to ignore but that had drawn my gaze after a while._

_I longed to forget it…I wanted to depart into nothingness, into the darkness so that I would no longer have to see it anymore…so that I did not have to feel another life lost beneath my hands…did not have to hear the last rattling breath with which I had become so familiar. _

_But I could not forget, there is another attack on, and I throw down my writing once again upon my cot, leaving the small tent and snatching up my medical bag, dismissive of the dark stains that covered it, emerging into air so hot and thick that it was rather like marching into baking bread dough. _

_I hurry towards the sounds I so despised, my eyes naturally drawn to the ground ahead, trained to latch onto the nearest wounded that I could still help, passing over the ones too badly hurt, the ones that barely moved. _

_I stop by a lad, falling to my knees beside him, assessing his injuries quickly and taking out what I needed to treat him. _

_But there is another shout! An alarm that spreads throughout the relief, another charge is coming! There is no time! _

_I pull the lad up, pressing his hand against the wound in his shoulder, handing him over to an orderly who struggles with him from the field._

_"Doctor!"_

_I turn as the familiar title draws my attention, shouted with the same urgency that it always was. _

_There…Murray is struggling with another figure…a man who staggers forward, one arm clenched around his side._

_I run towards them, then freeze in terror as I am stricken by a sudden recognition._

_For the man is none other than Holmes…clothed in the same uniform as that of my comrades, stained with blood, his face red and ruined by the sun…his cheeks hollow and wasted. _

_And there is another larger stain, spreading on his side, growing larger…and I can already tell from the sight of the blood that it is too late, for it is darker and too fast, not just blood from a wound but his very life's blood. _

_Oh God, how can I have failed to protect him?_

_I run, expecting myself not even to make it to his side, but to my surprise I am there to catch him, to hold him as he falls back onto the sand, there to watch as his eyes fix on the darkening sky and grow glazed and empty as the others had._

_"Holmes!" I gasp pleadingly, hot tears are flowing freely down my face and clogging my throat for I am already a worn man; this…this is too much._

_"Holmes!" I can not speak, not think of anything else to say, only whisper his name desperately._

_He whispers something as his cold hand goes limp in mine, and I think it might be my name…but it is lost in the cacophony that surrounds us still. _

_And then he is gone…gone so quickly and so simply that I cannot believe but sit numbly as Murray tries to pull me to my feet._

_"Doctor…Doctor we must go, there is not time!…there is no…"_

_But his voice is cut out by another sound…and a blinding pain in my shoulder that seems to eat its way through me, shattering me and my control._

_They are coming…still the enemy is coming! I am seized by the panic that so often seizes men and beasts on such a occasion and as the pain is numbed by the onrush of adrenaline, I am running, staggering and stumbling with no thought but to escape…to get away._

_But there is another shot to my leg, effectively hobbling me, and I am falling forward…and Murray's arm vanishes from my side…he has disappeared…run…left me. I do not hit the sand as I expected I would but rather feel it give away before me and I fall through it into a pool…the sand grows smoother and softer until it is no longer sand but water. _

_I struggle against it, the panic of before taking true hold of my nerves as I feel it surround and smother me, cutting off air and light. I cannot breathe, I am drowning!_

_I cannot breathe and there is darkness everywhere! I cannot see or speak or move but an weighted down by the weight of it and with a thrill of terror I wonder whether I am once again in the grips of that fever that seized me on the Friesland…only this time not only am I immobile and unable to breath…but I am conscious of it._

_I would dearly love to open my mouth in a cry or a shout for help, but my throat will not work even if I had breath to voice such a sound._

_As though it would mock my silence the darkness is suddenly filled with the same sounds of earlier, and along with them are the cries of my fallen friend, his voice desperately shouting my name._

_I struggle harder, in an effort to reach that voice…for dead or not I am desperate to find it. I feel myself roll and fall again though I still cannot move freely._

_"Watson!" the voice echoes dimly, I try to call back and hear something slight and strangled emerge from my throat._

_But I am never to make it out of this darkness, for from it emerge hands and claws that seize me in an iron grip trying to subdue my struggles. _

_At last I am able to make a sound, a terrified cry that fights its way out of me, filled with the ragged desperation that fills me. I fight harder. _

_"Watson!"_

_Holmes! it Is Holmes! Where is he!?_

"Watson! Stop it!"

_I gasp and struggle, unable to breathe because of the sobs in my throat._

"Watson! I'm here. I'm right here!"

_The strong grip is still around me, striving to hold me still…and I am aware of something tangled about my limbs…restricting my movements. _

"Watson look at me! Watson."

_I look, I turn my head and am met with a pair of cold grey orbs, steady and bright with worry and concern._

I stop, my world freezes and in that moment the chaos disappears, leaving me shaking and covered in a sheen of cold sweat and the only solid thing that I could feel were my friend's arms.

"Holmes!?" I gasped, reaching up to grip his arms, to feel the sinewy limbs beneath my own hands.

"I'm here, Watson."

I shook violently, fighting down the nausea that rose in my throat; and completely not caring about the weakness I was showing, I lowered my head to his thin shoulder and clung to him as I tried desperately to forget, to let go of the images that still flashed across my eyes in sickening revolution, even hidden in his jacket as they were. I suddenly realised I was dangerously close to hyperventilating.

"Shh, it's all right, dear fellow," I heard his voice break softly through the half-real terrors still lurking around me, and his grip on me tightened protectively as I gasped under a wave of roiling nausea…and fear, so much fear I could fairly taste it.

"Take a deep breath, Watson. It was just a dream, old chap, it's all right. I'm right here."

_Just a dream_…it was, it _was_ just a dream. Thank God above for that.

Finally I managed to take a breath without feeling as if I were going to be ill everywhere, and I swallowed hard in a half-choking sob, raising my head and sitting back. But one arm left my shoulders only to then grip one of my icy, trembling hands in his, and his face was filled with an almost tender sympathy.

"Thank you – for waking me up," I whispered shakily.

His eyebrows drew together in a long black line. "My word, Watson, how you frightened me!" he replied softly.

He forestalled my stammered apology gently. "Come, your hands are like ice – I think we could both do with a drink. And not in here, we'll go to my sitting room."

I nodded mechanically, scarcely realising when he put my dressing gown round my shoulders and untangled the blankets which had become a knotted mess round my ankles – I should have fallen off the bed in my struggles had he not pulled me back.

Then he offered me his arm and I stumbled to my feet rather unsteadily. My knees were still quivering, my leg still throbbing, and the fact did not escape his notice I knew – but he kindly said nothing about my weakness and instead put an arm round me for support and let me lean on him without saying a word.

When once we had reached the sitting room adjoining his bedroom, he settled me on a couch in front of the fire and threw another log upon it before disappearing into the corridor. I felt an unaccountable urge of panic at being left alone, and lowered my head into my hands to try and get a grip upon my out-of-control emotions, shaking and quivering with the Herculean effort.

Suddenly I jumped at a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry. Here," he said gently, handing me a glass of water into which I hoped he had put a bit of something rather more bracing.

I started to sip and recognised the taste as he sat beside me anxiously. "Powdered ginger – it will help your stomach settle," he said with the tiniest of smiles.

I swallowed a nearly hysterical laugh at his throwing my own words back at me and instead felt myself smile despite my still lingering terror and nausea. I drained the glass under his watchful eye and he took it from me, taking it to the table.

He then picked up a washrag from the nightstand, wet it in cold water, and brought it to me, and I realised my face still was coated in both tears and sweat. I hastily scrubbed it vigourously with the rough cloth, trying to also remove the memories as well as their effects.

Then he moved a bit closer to me on the couch and favoured me with a calm and steadying gaze I had seen him use on frightened clients. "All right, old chap. It is your turn now, if you wish to talk about it," he said quietly.

My first inclination was to shake my head as the bile rose once more in the back of my throat, and he sighed.

"I gathered it was something about the war, judging from the way you were fighting me. Am I right?"

I nodded wordlessly, not trusting my voice just yet and keeping my eyes on the floor, twisting the washrag nervously in my shaking hands.

"You were – more disturbed than I've ever seen you, Watson," he whispered. "When I heard you calling for me, I – I thought for certain something horrible was in there with you."

"Something was," I murmured, shivering still. He sprang up and fetched me a blanket, wrapping it round my shoulders and then returning to his position beside me.

"I won't force you to speak of it," he said softly, "but I – I wish I had not been a part of it, my dear chap. I'm so sorry."

"It – it's this blasted case," I said shakily, "there's so much…uncertainty, so much fear…that it's affecting our subconscious thoughts, that's all. Just nerves, nothing more, that's all it is."

"Are you trying to convince me, or you, Watson?" he asked quietly.

"I – I don't know," I whispered, lowering my head into my hands as the dream replayed itself in my mind once more...the smell, the sounds, the death…Holmes dying in my arms on the battlefield…my being shot again…

I tried desperately to control my ragged breathing as the pictures and feelings still haunted my vision. I felt a hand come gently to rest on my shoulder as I trembled and took a long breath, swallowing firmly on the nausea in the pit of my stomach.

"Yes, it was about the war," I said finally, wishing somehow to tell someone, anyone…though I did not want him feeling guilt over being involved in the dream.

"What part did I play in it?" he said softly.

"You were…one of the soldiers," I managed, "one that – that I wasn't able to save. You were hit, and then died in my arms, then – then the attack began again, I was shot, and Murray left me, and then I fell into a pool of deep water…"

I had to stop, for I was teetering dangerously on the verge of petrified terror again and realising I probably sounded rather pathetically ridiculous – all my worst fears had come to the fore in that horrible, horrible dream.

"Oh, my dear Watson…" he trailed off sadly in a helpless sigh, patting my shoulder with a gentleness that comes of seeing the same sort of visions one's self only a night or two previously.

For a moment we sat there in silence, and finally I began to breathe normally, the fear and pain and terror fading slightly under the warmth of the fire and the comforts of someone close by. Then –

"We should go back to London," I heard his voice, vibrating with suppressed anger or emotion, I did not know which.

My head shot up and I met his eyes. "What?"

"It's gone too far, Watson. The harm being done in this case is now more upon us rather than the people we have come to protect," he said intensely, his eyes flashing, "give me the word, and I'll tell the Count we're leaving his ridiculous case where it started, in the mind of his fiancée. I would not blame you, for I am ready to drop it as well, after what I have seen nightly in this horrible house."

"No."

"I'm deathly serious, old chap."

"And so am I," I said firmly.

His eyes softened immeasurably. "I should have known my Watson has a better nerve than I."

I gulped down the remnants of that burning nausea and took a long breath, gaining a bit of strength from his quiet words and the firm hand that yet had not left my shoulder.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asked quietly, his eyes searching my features rather than my words for the true answer.

I nodded, steadily this time, and his worried face relaxed into a small smile.

"You really should try to sleep, Watson – you are exhausted anyway and this has not helped matters," he said, pulling a pillow off a chair and putting it on one end of the couch.

At my hesitation, for I really did not want to try to sleep again, his eyes softened in sympathy.

"If you like, I shall stay here with you," he said softly, "I have no intention of sleeping the rest of the night anyway – I have far too much to think about."

I felt a blush warm my cold face.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear fellow – heaven knows you've done the same for me more times than I can count," he said simply, fetching a couple more blankets and gesturing to the pillow.

After only a moment more of hesitating, I sank back with a sigh and pulled the covers up warmly round me. Holmes put another log on the fire and then turned down the gas, slowly and gradually.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, my dear fellow."

"Thank you," I whispered into the dark stillness. A hand patted my shoulder reassuringly.

"Of course."

I heard the creaking of a chair nearby my head and a shadow blocked the fire from my view as he sat close within my reach. And finally I closed my eyes again, knowing that for the rest of the night, no more ghosts were going to haunt us.

Or going to haunt me, at least.


	23. Our Illusions

_Our apologies for the delay, everyone. A combination of technical difficulties with laptops and in my case, a rather nasty bout of food poisoning, could not exactly be helped. _

* * *

_"__We suffer primarily not from our vices or our weaknesses, but from our illusions. We are __haunted__, not by reality, but by those images we have put in their place.__"_

_- Daniel J. Boorstin_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

For a half hour, I sat there beside my friend, watching to see that his sleep was going to be free of the spectres that had haunted it tonight.

I never in a hundred years would wish such things as I had been seeing upon anyone I cared for, least of all upon him – but a tiny part of me was grateful that it was not just I whose mind was being tampered with by these ghosts of the past. If we were both having such horrible visions, then there was a logical explanation for the phenomenon, one that did not involve my going mad.

Though judging from his frightened cries, his frantic struggling, and – I never will forget the sight or sound, for it nearly broke my heart – his broken sobbing as I tried desperately to waken him from the nightmare, his dream was far, far worse than mine. I could not imagine adding the horrors of war and a very deep-seated fear of drowning to the horrors of someone I cared for dying in front of me…it was too terrible for even a thought.

It was a credit to his nerves that he was now sleeping relatively peacefully; or else credit to his trust in me, one or the other. I did not care which, so long as he _was_ sleeping.

I glanced back instantly as he sighed and shifted unconsciously in his sleep, but he did not waken, for which I was grateful. I absently straightened out the coverlet and then, realising how cold it really was in this draughty castle, went back to his own freezing room and retrieved a few more blankets from his disheveled bed to spread over him.

I smirked when I thought about how much extra work these night visions had been making for Lehmann – we had been in different rooms every night since our arrival, it seemed like. But I forced my amusement back into the recesses of my mind to focus on the problem at hand, which my poor friend had come to share tonight.

Granted, he had always been prone to nightmares, for I could well remember even in the early days of our association hearing his muffled cries from the upstairs bedroom as horrors he had seen from the Afghan War haunted his sleep. But, to my knowledge, except for a few right after moving back into Baker Street and the occasional one after a particularly dangerous memory were inadvertently dredged up, he had not been subject to such horrors in quite some time.

I would have discounted this one to nerves and the stress (and lack of sleep, for that matter), of the last few days, were it not that I had been having the same types of nightmares…all of them centreing around some fear.

My mind, free of those lurking doubts as to my complete sanity, now was whirring with all the precise mechanism of an expensive clock – this was too much of a coincidence to be just that, a coincidence. No, there was something wrong with this castle, something…

I had had a horrible dream every night since I had been here, the last and most awful one being when I'd fallen asleep by the fire in my room last night. Watson only just now had had his first one…what was the connection there? What had happened today that had not happened any other day since we had arrived?

We had eaten the same things, done the same things…the only different thing we had done was sleep in different rooms.

Wait…different rooms…each night I had slept in my own room, Watson had usually been in Lachlan's. Perhaps – no, that was not it, because the night before last he slept in his own room and nothing had happened; I had slept there the second half of the night and nothing had happened as well. It was not the room.

What then?

I racked my brain, going through every motion, every action we had done today from the time we got up, something that would give me a clue. Nothing of great import or significance had happened at all…we had investigated, done a bit of theorizing, talked with Lachlan and Renie, and then gone to bed. Or at least Watson had gone to bed while I stayed up smoking…what had I not done today and what _had_ he done that was different from the other nights?

I paced the room, silently so as not to awaken him again, my brain simply racing with trying to uncover the connection I was somehow missing. I knew I was missing it, the explanation was staring me right in the face, I knew it. But what?

I clamped my teeth down on my unlit pipe in frustration, staring moodily into the fire. Blast. I was missing something, some rather simple link. What was it?

An ember popped suddenly in the fire, causing me to jump, startled, and I scowled at having my thoughts interrupted.

Wait.

The fire.

I had not lit my fire tonight, because I was too tired, I had spent too long recapping events with Lachlan and Haight and had been too exhausted upon my returning to the room to do ought else but sleep – until I had heard my friend calling for me. I had not lit my fire…

…but Watson had come into my room to get _my _wood for his!

That was it!

That was the link – the wood for the fire! If someone were trying to affect our dreams, it would be a relatively simple, though diabolical, matter to lace the wood with some kind of combustible hallucinatory drug! I had had a roaring fire every night…and my worst nightmare had been while sitting right next to it on the hearth! Watson's dream had been far more vivid than mine, because his room was _smaller_; the drug would naturally be more concentrated! That had to be it!

Watson had come and gotten some of my wood tonight, and in consequence had inadvertently got hold of some containing whatever drug had been being used upon me! I was _not_ going mad, this was a perfectly logical explanation for everything!

* * *

I put that theory to Watson the next morning before breakfast, and his bright hazel eyes grew at once both thoughtful and animated.

"That's exactly what it is, Holmes, a hallucinatory drug! I knew there was something odd about that dream!" he said excitedly. "Because in a normal nightmare, or even a night terror, one is not fully aware of one's surroundings. In a hallucination, one cannot distinguish between reality and what is not, all the images are equally realistic! That's exactly what I was doing, seeing and hearing you at the end when you were trying to awaken me, in addition to all those…other things," he finished in a subdued tone.

I nodded, but something in his voice sounded off to me. "You sound as if you speak from experience with the hallucinations, old fellow," I said softly.

He nodded. "Enteric fever, Holmes. And really any fever for that matter, if it gets high enough," he replied slowly. "Though those were not drug-induced, they still were hallucinations."

I winced, for it took no deduction to see when the most recent experience of that sort had been. "As in brain fever, for example?"

He shrugged. "One symptom, yes. At any rate," he changed the subject not very subtlely as we saw Lachlan, Haight, and Alfie enter the dining hall on the heels of the Lady Claudia and her brother, "it is good to know that there is a logical explanation for what's been plaguing you, eh?"

I nodded thankfully, the excitement that I had felt last night upon the discovery only heightened now by the intense relief of his corroboration of the theory. I was not mad, thank heaven.

This was such a great relief to my mind that I was inclined to view the domestic scene before me with a happiness that I rarely put to anything. My good mood was further humoured when Claudia turned her overly vast smile to our little group, her eyes lingering first on Lachlan and then settling on Watson, who coloured and busied himself with his eggs.

Lachlan, Haight, and my Irregular all looked well-rested, for if Watson had less to worry about in our friend's case then he might begin to concern himself with his own need for sleep.

Only the seaman appeared to be in a less than cheery mood, probably due in part to Haight's continual fussing, but also because of last night's events for he turned to me with a scowl, putting out one hand to stop the reporter's attempts to cut his sausage for him.

"She got away?"

I nodded, swallowing my own mouthful of toast.

"Cleanly, but we did find out a few things, old man, don't despair yet."

He sighed and nodded, taking his fork from Haight and spearing the meat with more force than was really necessary at the Count's table.

Deprived of his chance to fuss, Haight turned to me with an air of that resigned amusement and curiosity that always accompanied him; indeed, I had come to believe that no matter the delay or the uninteresting circumstances he found himself in, the lad would still find some way to amuse himself, a trait most likely due to that unfailing optimism and tenacity that was the trademark of all reporters. Deprived of a story or action he took to tormenting his friend by behaving overly concerned - no wonder his kind were so utterly annoying!

"So what's in store for us today, Mr. Holmes, because if you didn't have any specific tasks in store for me I thought I might go to the village and see about sending my newspaper a telegram; I imagine they'll be getting a bit nervous if they haven't heard from us in a few days."

I nodded, brushing my fingers to rid them of the crumbs and then tapping them together contemplatively, resting my elbows on the table despite the disapproving look from Lady Claudia.

"An excellent idea," I said, lowering my voice to a near whisper as I went on, glad of the murmur of breakfast conversations that hid my voice. "Actually, Haight…you could do something for me while you are there."

Haight grinned, his teeth flashing. "Name it, Mr. Holmes."

"I need you to find out the nearest place one could purchase dry ice from."

The American's brow furrowed and then cleared with understanding.

"The fog?"

"Precisely. Dry ice is not purchased too often, and we might be able to find a thread if you can locate the source of…"

But here I was interrupted by the rather vapid voice of Sir August Konig, who was looking quite as bored as usual, his eyes languidly half open in aristocratic boredom.

"We heard some commotion during the night, Herr Holmes…do I take it that you encountered Cecilia's nightmare again last night?"

This was said with disdain and a slight smirk that on his near expressionless face meant far more than it would have on another's.

I smiled back at him with a forced politeness, aware (from the view in the corner of my eye) that Watson was watching and that I would not hear the end of it if I aggravated our position further by insulting one of the count's guests.

No matter how much of an imbecile he was.

"We did, I am sorry to have disturbed you Sir August."

"You have not made any progress in identifying the villain behind it?" His sister piped up eagerly, her high voice a splendid contrast to his and much too shrill for the hour of the day.

The brother sniffed and turned a disdainful eye on his sister. "I seriously doubt that Cecilia is seeing anything more than the result of her own overactive imagination, Claudia," he said in English out of politeness, for the majority of us spoke English and I was fairly certain that Lachlan and Renie's German skills were practically nonexistent.

"Though it is very interesting to observe you in action, Herr Holmes," he went on, "I fear that you are wasting your efforts here; my cousin dotes on his future wife and it only encourages her fancies. It is not your fault that no results have come about."

I had no chance to reply before yet another voice interrupted. "On the contrary, Sir August…" I groaned inwardly, curse Watson and his overly chivalrous attitude for the weaker sex, the direction of this conversation would be neither useful nor informative, and could quite possibly lead toward an argument.

I shot my friend a pointed glare and his eyes flickered to my face in hesitation, his words faltering.

"That…that is to say, we believe our time is not wasted at all if it lays the lady's mind to rest," he finished.

Sir August sniffed at this as well and opened one of the newspapers that Lehmann had purchased that morning with the same show of boredom as before, though his sister looked with renewed interest at Watson.

"You are quite considerate Herr Doktor."

My poor Watson coloured again, muttered something, and tried to appear busy by helping Alfie with the jam, which was now spread from here to kingdom come thanks to the lad's efforts. Sadly for both of them, this domestic action seemed only to further draw the Lady's attention.

I took advantage of this distraction and turned back to Haight.

"I intend to stay here and follow the threads we have been given," I continued. "I have failed in this affair so far, but no longer."

I realized too late that I had let my relief and determination eke into my voice with this last statement…enough to draw the attention of both Haight and Lachlan, who were both leaning forward now like hounds with pricked ears.

"Why do you say that?" Haight asked softly, letting the awkward and halting exchange between Watson, Alfie, and Claudia cover his words.

I met Lachlan's steady and unnervingly piercing blue gaze on my other side and read the same words there though he had not spoken yet. There was nothing for it now.

I sighed and rested my fingertips together again. "No doubt Watson has told you both of the nightmares that I have been suffering, in some explanation of my less than mannerly conduct recently?"

I knew at once from the coloration on Haight's face and the lack of expression on Lachlan's that I was correct; of course the good Doctor would have confided in them (Heaven knew I had been far too rude for him to do so in me), and I could hardly blame him, for he had been under an enormous amount of pressure the last few days.

I went on, taking no visible notice of Haight's reaction. "Last night it was not I, but Watson that had the nightmare."

They both winced in some sympathy and Haight's brow furrowed in confusion while Lachlan's eyes darkened with some anger and concern.

"You mean…"

I nodded.

"It is not the atmosphere of this dreadful castle that is causing them; it's a hallucinatory drug specifically designed to keep me unnerved and off balance. I imagine the solution targets the area of the brain that control both fear and memory."

The seaman whistled softly, "No wonder you've been off the fritz, Holmes, I had a sneakin' suspicion that something was wrong though I couldn' put my finger on it and the doctor fell askance of it eh?...How?"

I told them briefly of last night's events and of the deduction that I had made in the early hours of the morning and was further gratified to see that I made sense to both of them just as it had Watson.

"The poor Doctor," Haight muttered, tapping his fork irritably against his plate. "But you have it figured out now? Everything's okay?"

I nodded. "If anything, it has given us yet another clue to follow; the wood is among the things that I intend to investigate."

"Right then," Lachlan said, "If Renie's headed to the village then I'll…"

"_You_ will be resting, Lachlan," Watson cut in, freed at last from Claudia's attentions as she rose from the table and took Alfie aside, busily scrubbing at his face in a very ineffective manner with a doilied handkerchief. "Especially if you intend to be up and about this evening. I've just been informed that the count is planning a rather formal dinner party for tonight and if Holmes intends to sit in wait again tonight you'll need your strength."

Lachlan scowled but I cut off any retort. "He's right, Lachlan, you were dead on your feet by the end of last night. Perhaps you could watch Alfie for us. I believe I shall need a sounding board for my investigations and…"

"…and the good Doctor is an excellent conductor of light." the seaman finished with a heavy sigh. "I've read the stories, Holmes. Is that all right with you then, Doctor…will I be allowed to play wet nurse at least?"

Watson smiled, no doubt relieved that he would not have to engage in another argument with the stubborn man that morning, "Certainly, providing that 'playing wet-nurse' does not involve telling him more of your ghost stories, I would like to have sleep undisturbed by a terrified child if it's all the same to you."

Said "child" chose that moment to break free of Claudia's grip and duck hurriedly behind Lachlan's chair.

"Would that be all right with you, Alfie?" I asked the lad.

Alfie glanced at Claudia then he grinned up at his temporary guardian, his face purple with jam.

"Oi'm wiv' you gov."

_**Watson**_

"Holmes, I appreciate your need to pace, old fellow, but my neck is getting tired. And as much as your self-made fog makes one think of good old London I'm in imminent danger of suffocation if it grows much larger."

I watched, somewhat bemused as my friend continued to pace, completely oblivious to my statement, as he had been to all my comments for half an hour now.

I sighed and turned back to the will that we had spent several hours poring over that afternoon, along with the financial records of the upkeep of the house over the last month. There was nothing glaringly wrong with any of them.

After a few more minutes of fruitless searching and riffling idly through the documents I looked up at Holmes, wishing that I could halt that infernal pacing with my gaze alone.

Of course I could not, it seemed nothing could reach him now as he continued to stalk by like an over-large bird of prey, his head sunk forward in reflection, his pipe going like the very worst of London smokestacks, his face showing no emotion, no evidence that his great mind was even working on the problem any longer, back and forth, back and forth, back and -

"Holmes!"

I bit my tongue in horror as I realized that the frustrated call seemed to have escaped my own mouth. Holmes's head snapped up and he snatched the pipe from his mouth, turning on me.

"Hmm? What is it, Watson?"

He was scowling fiercely though I doubt he realized it, his black brows knitted like heralding thunderheads.

I swallowed and tried to maintain a thoughtful appearance.

"Have…erm…have you reached any conclusions yet?"

He snorted. "Conclusions, Watson?"

"Connections then; I mean I'm perfectly willing to help, Holmes, but you have barely spoken more than two words over the last hour. I don't have one thought to rub against another."

His lips twitched in something of a grin, his scowl of thought relaxing in humor.

"What time is it, Watson?"

I pulled out my watch, though in reality I had consulted it enough already that I had no need to even look at the face.

"Half past five. We've been in here for over six hours and the majority of that has been your thinking."

"Five?" Holmes asked incredulously, pulling out his own timepiece as though my own were not reliable enough.

"Half past. We should probably check on Lachlan and Alfie, make sure they've left each other in relative pieces at least, although I suppose Haight has already taken the lad off his hands."

"Haight? When did he get back?"

"Well, he left around eleven; two hours there, two hours back, and an hour in the village, sometime after four o'clock. He poked his head in here, you only growled at him. Where else do you think you'd gotten the paper in your hand?"

Holmes looked at the very battered sheet he still clutched in his right hand before he tossed it down onto the others in frustration. He sighed and flung himself down into his chair reaching for more tobacco.

"Like all our other leads Watson, very dry." I did not need to look at him to see his smirk at the atrocious pun, nor did I even intend to acknowledge it. "Had we come here in the summer than there would have been far too many places that one could purchase or acquire dry ice, as it is there is not much call for it anywhere in the winter as this place is already like a veritable freezer."

"It must have come from somewhere." I said, "Is there no way of determining the source?"

"Not without some more extensive investigation. It is possible that it came in on the train since there is no call for it in the village. We might make an excursion in the near future Watson, to the train station, I daresay we've been stranded in this gloomy place long enough."

I was inclined to agree with him as I looked at the drab, gray walls and the dank corners. "Perhaps tomorrow; we could take Alfie, he needs to stretch his legs I've no doubt."

Holmes nodded absently, already sinking into his own thoughts again.

"What of our other leads, you can make nothing of them either?"

Holmes shook his head. "The will is no great indicator, for any one of the Count's relatives stand to lose a great deal from this marriage; Sir August, Lady Claudia, their great-uncle Friedrich, and a few distant third cousins - though those last would not lost enough to justify murder. Nor do the house records reveal a great deal, for so much goes on in this castle that error is only to be expected in the upkeep of it; small losses of food are commonly put down to the servants or that dog, and there have been no large ones recently that would indicate our quarry hiding himself within these walls.

"No, Watson, the more I think about it the more I am convinced that the person behind these apparitions is already established inside the castle, not only because the outbuildings were empty but because living here in secret, in this frigid weather would be too near impossible."

"Not to mention their intimate knowledge of the passages." I said, suppressing a shudder at the recollection of the dark tunnels. "So our efforts this afternoon have all been wasted."

Holmes looked at me in surprise with his sharp grey eyes. "Not at all Watson, eliminating the unnecessary facts is also part of detection. We know now which threads not to follow."

"Well I must admit that I am rather frustrated, you on the other hand appear to be quite calm."

My friend nodded. "My thinking has not all been fruitless, old fellow. I have been investigating motive."

"Motive? But Holmes, you said that the will…"

He shook his head, cutting me off. "Not the motivation behind the whole affair, Watson, but rather behind the unusual attacks on us."

I raised my eyebrows. "That's very true, Holmes, rather puzzling…"

His lips curved in a smile. "You see now, eh? The mishap with the tower and storage rooms, both of us locked in at the exact time that Haight and Alfie were incarcerated. The drugs laced in my firewood, the attack on Lachlan in Vienna, even the time you were pushed at the train station, Watson."

I nodded, that had seemed out of place at the time.

"They do seem to be rather unprovoked." I twisted in my chair to look at him better as he rose and paced more slowly about the room. "Do you think they are all being done by one party then?"

"Mmm…I am inclined to believe so, Watson, none of them except the substance in my wood appear to be planned much in advance, for no one could have predicted the movements we could take, they are performed on the spur of the moment, improvised when it is most convenient, and even though they have been dangerous none of us has come to much harm, at least, not once we arrived at the castle. This means that our quarry is able to keep rather close tabs upon us all."

"What is your theory then?"

He smiled. "Not theory, Watson, fact, their efforts have already been successful."

"What do you mean?" I asked wearily, for I was in no mood to listen to Holmes' play the conjurer just now…

…the conjurer.

I glanced sharply up at my friend to see that his smile had widened at my sudden realization.

"Oh, well done, Watson, you see it now?"

"Distraction!" I gasped, "It was all distraction."

He nodded, "The ghostly appearances, the nightmares, even the attacks which, though they caused bodily harm to both you and Lachlan, did not have any physical effect on me."

"Good heavens!"

"Distraction, or as they call it in the profession of legerdemain, _misdirection. _The magician's greatest tool and asset. Meaning that, however frightening, Lady Cecilia's afflictions have become a calculated misdirection…or at least they have been since we arrived."

Holmes smiled slightly, his eyes alight with the possibility of a hitherto undiscovered motive and possibilities, looking far more himself then he had since first arriving at this dratted castle, truly alive now that the challenge was once again, clear before him.

"Which means that there is more behind this mystery then we had first supposed, something that our antagonist is desperate to keep concealed, if he is going to such immense lengths to ensure my continued distraction."

I felt a knot of tension grow in my throat as the grave eyes of my friend rose to meet mine.

"A secret important enough to kill for."


	24. I Do Not Believe in Them

_you want to know  
whether i believe in ghosts  
of course i do not believe in them  
if you had known  
as many of them as i have  
you would not  
believe in them either_

_- Don Marquis (1878–1937)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

"But, Doctorrrrr!"

I rolled my eyes, thoroughly tired of the child's whining by this point in the evening. Watson, of course, was as patient as ever while he carefully fastened the small black bow-tie round the protesting lad's neck.

Alfie scowled darkly at his scrubbed and pressed reflection in the mirror, kicking the bureau leg in his irritation.

"No more of that, young man, or you'll be going to bed at eight tonight, and without dessert," Watson ordered sternly, handing the lad his jacket.

"Why we 'ave ta wear such bleedin' uncomfor'ble clothes, jist because tha' bloke wants ta 'ave a formal dinner?" Alfie whimpered miserably as Watson ducked under my elbow to retrieve his cufflinks from the dish on the bureau.

"That's what nobility does, Alfie," I said boredly, finishing my own tie and shouldering into my jacket. "Stupid tradition, I grant you, but –"

"Holmes…" Watson shot me a warning glance, telling me in no uncertain terms not to encourage the lad's less-than-desirable attitude.

"But yer not makin' Mr. Lachlan wear 'em!"

"Mr. Lachlan is not under my care this trip, lad," Watson said sternly. "When you're a grown man, you may decide for yourself what you wear."

I swallowed a laugh as the child pulled a rather disrespectful face at Watson's back when he turned to snatch his jacket from the wardrobe.

There was a loud pounding on the door, and Alfie rushed to open it, admitting Lachlan and his young reporter friend to the room, both looking rather uncomfortable – Haight in a formal black suit…and Lachlan actually in a coat and tie, much to our amazement, his casted arm tucked discreetly into his pocket.

"Shut up, both of ye," the midshipman growled defiantly, sinking into a chair.

Alfie smirked and tugged at his own tie, trying to loosen it.

"Alfie, for heaven's sake don't muss that; I just got it tied correctly!"

"Oll roight, oll roight, Doctor, keep yer shirt on," the boy muttered, flinging himself onto the bed.

I finished my toilette and turned to look at our friends. Haight was fidgeting nervously, one hand in his pocket, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other in nervous little hops.

The odd fact had not escaped Watson's notice either, for he shot the other two a sharp look.

"What's wrong, Haight?" he asked directly, absently stopping Alfie from wrinkling his small trousers. The lad scowled and made a motion to throw a pillow at my friend, which I hastily vetoed in no uncertain terms.

The reporter and Lachlan shared a long awkward glance before Haight finally turned to me, pulling a telegram out of his pocket and handing it to me. I scanned it with growing dismay, and Watson walked over to read over my shoulder. I heard his sharp intake of breath even as the words registered in my mind as well as his.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen;" Haight said uncomfortably, "not that we're ungrateful for your care the last week and a half, but we do have to get back to work eventually, and my superiors are getting impatient. We need to leave for Vienna tomorrow and see if we can salvage some of our contacts at least."

"You can't possibly!" Watson cried. "Lachlan needs at least three more weeks before those ribs will have even knitted fully, and I'd prefer five more! It is far too dangerous for his health to be back in active work like that!"

"Believe me, Doctor," Haight replied soothingly, "I have no intention of allowing him to do anything approaching active work. For once, he'll sit tight in our hotel and let me do the legwork for him, isn't that right, Lachlan?"

The seaman scowled, and I shot him a warning glance, looking pointedly at my close-to-irate medical friend. The sailor swallowed and nodded reluctantly, though I doubted the veracity of his dubious promise.

Watson turned helplessly to me for aid, but I shook my head with no little regret – if they wanted to leave there was no possibility that we could persuade them otherwise, and we both knew it.

Alfie, however, evidently did _not_ know it, for he flung himself on the reporter with a howl of anguish.

"Yew said yew'd play swords wiv me tomorro', with them sets o' armor downstairs," the lad wailed dismally, clinging to the startled fellow's thin legs.

"Alfie, we're not gonna be gone for long, maybe a week, that's all," Haight said gently, disengaging the lad's arms and kneeling in front of him, "and I'll do anything you want soon as we come back, all right?"

Alfie sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve, much to Watson's horror. Lachlan and I both laughed at his scandalised reaction, and the sound did much to hasten the diffusing of the sudden tension that had chilled the air more so than the January evening snowfall.

"You will be careful?" Watson asked softly, looking at the midshipman with more open concern than even he was wont to show with anyone except me.

The seaman stood, quite sturdily and apparently without pain, and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. "If I didn't, I'd not like to face you afterwards, Doctor. Rest easy, we'll be fine. Probably be bored out o' our heads, but we'll be fine."

Haight rolled his eyes. "I should think that being bored is preferable to being run over by a cab."

Lachlan snorted, squeezing Watson's shoulder before releasing him and reaching down to pat Alfie's ginger head, mussing up the perfectly combed hair (much to the child's delight and Watson's annoyance).

"Take care o' these two blighters whilst we're away, lad," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, and the boy's green eyes widened into two large green O's as he nodded solemnly.

Watson grinned at me over the boy's head, and I was very relieved to see the worry leave his eyes at the sight of the sailor's slightly more steady walk than he had been the last few days. He had enough to think about with this case of ours without having to worry about two extra people.

"We'll go along with you in the morning, if we can all fit in the sleigh," I spoke up, holding the door open for the others as it was nearly time for dinner, and my friend's face brightened considerably at the words. Indeed, even were our friends not intending to leave us the next morning, I believed we could all use a break from this horrible dank and rather gothic atmosphere.

Dinner was even a greater bore than the breakfast had been that morning. Lady Claudia was in fine form, gushing over Alfie's little suit and all but hanging onto Watson the entire time; the Count and his cousin were discussing hunting dogs for far longer than anyone with half a brain cared about; and the Lady Cecilia was engaged in an argument with her brother about when they were going to return home; for evidently dear Hobart was thoroughly disgusted with the Count's hospitality and did not care about showing it. Odious man.

I spent my time in scrutinising the guests, for I now suspected that either one of them or one of the staff were responsible for the happenings here.

Watson barely touched his food, so engaged was his attention in avoiding the Lady Claudia, keeping Alfie from upsetting various dishes of food, and shooting me and Haight warning glares when one of us would get too close to being offensive to one of the insufferable nobility. Lachlan calmly and coolly said no more than a dozen words the entire time to said nobility, concentrating his attention on managing the food in front of him with one hand and talking to me when there was a lull in my own conversation.

After the dinner, the ladies retired to a drawing room to discuss the Lady Cecilia's wedding plans and heaven only knows what else women talk about when alone; and the Count, Sir August, and Herr Strauss remarked that they were going to the billiard-room in the east wing for a few games before retiring.

"Mueller should already be there to have lit the fires and stocked the bar, if you should care to join us, gentlemen," the Count offered graciously.

I grinned when Watson's hazel eyes lit up with eager animation at the invitation, for he had attempted to persuade me to play him when we had been exploring the castle one afternoon – I had been in rather a black mood and had promptly shot his offer down with, I was a bit ashamed to admit, some rudeness. He deserved a relaxing evening, and I nudged him to take the offer.

"Billiards?" Haight whispered quizzically to Lachlan.

"_Pool_, Renie," the sailor responded dryly. "The English version."

"Ohh! Do you play, Doctor?" Haight asked eagerly.

"Fairly well," my friend said cautiously as we exited the room, "both American and British. Shall we?"

Haight grinned confidently, and Lachlan shot me a smirk behind the reporter's back as we fell into step behind our friends, Alfie tagging along at my heels. In a few moments we were in the large billiard room – apparently Strauss disliked the game (or more likely was terrible at it) for he was lounging at the bar with a drink Mueller had handed him, and the Count and Sir August had taken possession of one of the tables. My friend took the other and began racking the balls.

"Any bets, Lachlan?" I asked mischievously.

"Not on your life," the man replied with a laugh. "I remember the _Friesland_ game – the barman in that lounge told the crew and all hands talked about it for days afterwards. Renie's no match for him, even in American pool."

Alfie wriggled up onto the stool beside me to watch eagerly, and Strauss shot him a disdainful look. I kept a wary eye on the man, for he had already had more to drink this evening than was proper to be permitted around children, even in my liberal opinion.

"Holmes."

"Yes?" I turned my attention from Watson's excellent break to look at the midshipman, who was gazing thoughtfully into space.

"About this wood angle. You do know that Mueller is the one in charge of guests and what is in their rooms?"

Haight was eyeing my friend with newfound respect after he sank a rather difficult banked shot. I grinned and looked back at the seaman.

"I was aware of it, in fact had already considered it," I said in an undertone, for the elderly butler was still at the other end of the bar, "but I can see no motive he would have in putting some chemical in my wood – he does not benefit from the will being changed in any way, at any rate."

"But it's too much of a coincidence that the drugged stuff ended up _only_ in your room," Lachlan protested. "That speaks of this Flyin' Dutchman wanna-be intentionally attacking you, and Mueller's the only one who puts wood in there – it all comes from the same storeroom below, all mixed together."

"Yes, but it would be a small matter for someone to slip in during the day at any point in my absence and sprinkle the wood with whatever it is," I pointed out, reaching out a hand to stop Alfie from slipping off the stool in his squawking excitement as Watson sank two balls with one shot.

Lachlan's worn face suddenly creased in thoughtful repose. "Have ye checked your walls for passages and the like?" he asked suddenly.

I smiled tolerantly. "The second day were arrived. Mine, Watson's, and Alfie's. If there is a passage there, it's hidden well enough that I can find no sign of it."

"Hmm."

Alfie squealed suddenly and clapped his hands as Watson easily won the game against the young American. Haight scowled darkly after acknowledging his defeat.

"You're the first Englishman I've ever met that could play pool," he groused, scrambling up beside Alfie and giving the half-besotted Strauss a dubious look.

I noticed behind Watson, who was putting up the balls now, that the Count had been eyeing the game with interest.

"American, correct, Herr Doktor?"

"Yes, Count."

"You do play the English way as well, I take it?"

"I have played a bit, yes…"

"My cousin is taking his good time about saying, Doctor," Sir August drawled languidly, replacing his cue on the rack, "that he is weary of being beaten by me and would like some new blood in the game."

Watson flushed uncomfortably, modest as ever. "Well, I –"

"Excellent! Let us begin, then," the Count said amiably, choosing a different cue stick.

Sir August sauntered over in our direction and leaned against the bar, motioning for Mueller to bring him a cognac.

"So, Mr. Holmes. Would it be impertinent of me to ask you if you intend to continue the search for these fancies of my cousin's fiancée?" the man asked respectfully enough.

"Most definitely," I replied without hesitation, "for I do not believe they are mere fancies."

"Are you aware, Mr. Holmes," the nobleman said, leaning forward with the air of a man who knows a great secret, "that the lady in question has been suspected of mental instability in the past?"

"I was not," I replied cautiously, glancing at Lachlan to gauge his reaction. Other than a raised blonde eyebrow, nothing.

"I feel it my duty to warn you, Mr. Holmes, as I would not like to see you blemish your career with a case that might end in failure due to a mere overwrought imagination," Sir August informed me in a friendly – too friendly – tone, finishing off his cognac and after nodding amicably, seating himself next to Strauss to watch my dear friend beat the devil out of the Count in very short order.

Lachlan leaned over to me, his blue eyes cloudy with thought. "What's his game, Holmes?"

"I'm not quite certain," I replied with a frown – what _was_ the man's game? Were what he said true, was it a part of the puzzle that was essential or merely coincidental?

Tomorrow when we went to town, I would be spending a bit of time researching the Strauss family history as well as Sir August's.

My attention was drawn back to the present when I saw the Count throw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Hah. I should have bet on Watson with Strauss – in that tipsy state I could have rolled the lout for every farthing he possessed.

* * *

Before saying goodnight to Lachlan, I had taken a few logs from his room and Haight's to supplement my own unusable wood, and now, four hours later, I was still blissfully dream-free as I sat in front of the fire, puffing thoughtfully on my pipe…another thing I needed to do in town tomorrow, I was fast running out of tobacco.

So then. Researching the family histories, the dry ice angle, get more tobacco, send a telegram to Mycroft letting him know we had not met a violent death yet, and also – I only now remembered – I should check the stables and the hands there to see if a horse had been missing from them upon the night we had seen the ghostly horseman. If none had, then it was time to search every outbuilding on the estate, for the ghostly rider had to be keeping the animal somewhere out of the elements.

The whole thing, every incident, just did not seem to hang together; the ghostly rider was not the same sort of apparition as the ghostly woman…and what of the modern dress of the bride's ghost? I remembered too that the Count had spoken of a detailed history of the legends located somewhere in one of the upstairs libraries…I should have a look at that as well, for there could well be some clue in it that would aid us in our search.

I sighed regretfully, for I only now realised just how badly this entire affair had shaken my nerve and destroyed the powers I possessed, very effectively crippling my investigation; no doubt that had been the intent of the attacks. But no more. I was on full alert, my mind finally free and unclouded, and nothing was going to impede my case now, nothing.

I heard my door creak open softly behind me and turned in some surprise to see Watson poke his head in, looking slightly disturbed but not actually fearful – nothing seriously amiss then.

"I wondered if you were still up," he said by way of obvious conversation.

I tossed the papers I had been scribbling upon to the floor and motioned to the seat beside me. He sank down into the cushions wearily.

"You should be sleeping, old man. Or are you too elated still over beating the Count tonight?" I asked with a smirk.

His smile was, though genuine and filled with a small sense of pride, fleeting, for it faded from his face after only a moment. I frowned.

"Not another nightmare, old chap?" I asked gently.

He shook his head, leaning back against the couch. "Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

"Well…" he sighed somewhat sadly. "It cannot really qualify as a nightmare, but…have you ever had one of those dreams that was so _good_ that when you woke up from it, you regretted waking?"

I blinked, taking a moment to process that very odd statement. Then I understood, and sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder as he closed his eyes with a slight shudder.

"Your wife?" I asked softly.

He nodded wordlessly, opening his eyes again to stare morosely into the fire, and I could not tell if they were glistening just from the flickering light or from unshed tears.

"It wasn't a nightmare at all, it was…too good to be true," he whispered sadly, dashing a hand impatiently across his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, my dear fellow."

I could only repeat the trite words, wishing to heaven I knew something that would help his still-fresh grief, for it had only been a little over a year and a half.

He shrugged with a small sigh. "Not your fault, certainly," he returned softly. "I've no idea why tonight of all nights…"

"That odious woman's romantic attentions at dinner probably did not help, old chap," I said cautiously.

I received a moan and then a low snicker, and felt relief course through me. Humour I could do, sympathy I really could not, never having felt anything of the sort before myself.

"I would never, _ever_, in a million years, be able to marry a woman like that," he gasped, leaning back with a small grin at me.

I shrugged, keeping my face expressionless for comic effect. "I should like to think you could do better. If you ever get that desperate, I shall have more than a little to say to you on the matter, Watson."

He laughed outright this time, the pain leaving his face – not fully, but fading at least – and for several minutes we sat in a companionable silence. Then he stood, stretched, and smiled at me.

"Thank you, my dear fellow."

I blinked in surprise. "I did nothing, Watson."

"You didn't have to," he replied softly, shutting the door quietly behind him.

I turned back to stare into the fire, pondering over more than one inscrutable puzzle I had encountered this night.


	25. After Guests Have Gone

_The first night after guests have gone, the house _

_Seems haunted or exposed._

_- Robert Frost_

* * *

_**Watson**_

"Lachlan, don't you even _think_ about picking up that suitcase!" Haight bellowed at the stubborn seaman before even I could, as the man bent to pick up a large valise.

Lachlan shot the fellow a very irritated glare until he saw me backing the reporter up, and then he sighed and dropped the bag. Holmes grinned and took it from him, heading out the door with Mueller to finish loading the sleigh.

"I really feel bad about you not coming to town, Doctor," Haight said, turning to me with a frown. "You have to be getting a little stir-crazy here."

I shrugged, a bit regretfully. "There's only room for three, besides Keller. And besides Holmes had some investigation he wanted me to do here; if we split forces we shall get twice as much work done today and he is quite impatient about getting a move on the case."

"Don't get _too_ much done, Doctor," Lachlan said with a twinkle, "we don't want to miss the climax. Think you can hold off a week on those ghost hunts?"

I laughed and glanced at Holmes as he stamped in, shaking snow off his boots. "Not a chance, I'm afraid."

"Right then," the sailor said, the twinkle fading from his eyes slightly as he shook my hand warmly. "Take care of yourself and that detective – and that lad there," he added, as Alfie came running up, munching on a piece of coffeecake.

"Alfie, I told you no more cake!" I exclaimed, for that was the lad's fourth piece that morning (and those four were the ones he had not sneaked, to the best of my knowledge).

"But Miss Claudia said –"

"Better watch that woman, Doctor, she's got her course charted for you," Lachlan whispered confidentially.

I felt my face turn scarlet, and the midshipman laughed and clapped me on the back, slinging his last smaller bag over his shoulder and nodding to Keller, who was patiently waiting in the doorway.

"We'll see you in a week, Doctor," he called over his shoulder with a wave. Haight bobbed his head in a quick farewell to me and chucked a snowball at Alfie before making a dash for the sleigh, a whooping Irregular at his heels.

Holmes grinned and caught the lad's collar with one hand, fairly dragging him back to me despite his squirming.

"Alfie, you are to do exactly as Dr. Watson says today, do you understand me?" he said sternly.

Alfie nodded and said something round a mouthful of crumbs.

"I take it that was a garbled affirmative. Now, Watson," he continued, buttoning his coat, "I meant what I said – do not under any circumstances go anywhere by yourself outside this castle, and definitely no more secret passages that could possibly lock on you, there's a good chap?"

His demeanour and tone were light and teasing, but I could see the undisguised worry lurking in the back of his grey eyes as he met mine.

"I shall be careful," I replied with a small smile.

"Remember, the wood storerooms, the stables, the outbuildings – with a companion other than Alfie, of course – the women, and anything else you think could be of value. I shall do the boring researching part of our investigation and we will compare notes this evening."

I nodded, handing him his hat. He flashed me a warm smile before mashing it down upon his head and heading out the door with a careless wave, hopping up beside Haight in the sleigh. Lachlan glanced back at me as Alfie took hold of my trouser leg and raised a hand in farewell as Keller cracked the whip and the sleigh began to move with a spray of snow.

"Oi don' wannem ta leave," Alfie sniffled miserably, wiping coffeecake crumbs off his mouth.

"Nor do I, lad," I sighed, shutting the door against the icy wind and very much wishing I could have gotten out of this gothic house for a few hours at least.

"What're yew gonna do now, Doctor, wit'out Mr. 'Olmes 'ere?"

What, indeed? I had not felt quite so lost since the case had started, but Holmes had given me a job to do (several, actually) and I was going to carry them out to the best of my limited ability, hoping that I should do an acceptable job in his absence.

I glanced at my watch with a sigh, trying to bring myself out of the rather depressed melancholy mood that had settled upon my by the departure of my three friends.

"Yew oll roight, Doctor?"

I smiled at the lad's endearingly worried face as he glanced up at me. "We've only an hour before luncheon, Alfie, so I shan't really do anything until afterwards. What would you like to do?"

The child's eyes crossed mischievously, and he took me entirely by surprise by poking me soundly in the ribs (or as near as he could reach up).

"Tag, you're it!"

Thank heaven the ladies had taken themselves upstairs to a library with Sir August and the Count after breakfast. The staff and even Strauss laughing at a full-grown Englishman chasing a shrieking child down a stone corridor I could deal with, but being seen in such an undignified position by the women would have been more than slightly embarrassing.

_**Holmes**_

I clasped Haight's hand warmly before he climbed into the compartment to stow his and Lachlan's bags on the overhead racks. I did not think that I had ever seen his face so melancholy since the first time I had met him.

Lachlan came up behind me, and passed his bag up to his friend before turning to me with a heavy sigh.

"I must tell you, Holmes, I don't feel confident in leaving you and the Doctor alone in that dreary place, folk can get up to a lot of mischief in such secluded places."

"Then perhaps it is better that you do leave," I reasoned. "You're not in the best of shape, my friend, and I have every confidence that you will be better able to recover away from here with your tenacious bodyguard."

Lachlan laughed dryly, shooting an affectionate look at his comrade. "The lad clings to me like a leech, Holmes…though it puzzles me as to why."

I nodded. "Mmm, I am familiar with that particular type of confusion. He'll stick with you through thick and thin old fellow…vows made in storms, remember?"

That brought an actual smile though it faded fairly quickly to be replaced by consternation, his blond brows drawing together in frustration.

I clapped a hand on his shoulder briefly. "Don't trouble yourself, Lachlan. Watson and I have been through worse than this; it is not your fight to worry about."

The midshipman looked at me sharply, slumped as though a weight of great magnitude had settled on his shoulders. "You are both my friends, Holmes, you and the Doctor as well as Renie…and that _does_ make it my fight, and I cannot help but feel that I am abandoning the both of you in favor of business."

I met his gaze steadily and allowed a measure of emotion to creep into my voice. "We'll be all right."

He nodded, clasped my hand, and then pulled himself into the compartment. "See that you are…and thank you, Holmes, for everything."

"Goodbye, Midshipman."

I closed the door and stepped back as the train began to strain and screech as it started off.

"You'll hear from us within the week," Haight called, poking his head out the window.

I waved, seeing my gesture returned before the train finally went into motion and with a great chuffing and bilious cloud of steam pulled away from the station, leaving me to watch after it until it had disappeared into the great white expanse of the Bavarian countryside.

I sighed and pulled my coat up higher around my neck. It really was bitterly cold out here, even at midday, and I had business to do. I wished there had been room for Watson in the sleigh with us; I could very much use his company, tact, and his aid as a sounding board in my investigations today. But he was not here, and so I stiffened my resolve (and my muscles, for it was absolutely sub-arctic here!) and walked toward the station house to see about shipments of dry ice. Surely in a small village such as this, the shipments of anything, much less dry ice, were few and far between and easily enough located.

It took me only a few moments to find the station master, for the town was small and informal and the man spent a great deal of his time lounging about in his office with a mug of coffee rather than overseeing his charge.

It took even less time and only a few coins to persuade him to let me look through the shipment ledgers that lay on strewn haphazardly across his desk. I only wished that the Purser and other staff on board the _Friesland_ had been this cooperative when Watson and I had been looking for Culverton Smith; had they, the tragedies on that ship might have been averted.

I removed my gloves, flipped open the folder of cracked leather, and flipped through the pages, some tattered with faded ink and some crisp and newly added, all of them covered in stains from food and various other viscous substances.

I turned to the newer pages and began at a point two weeks back, working my way to today's entry, which was fresh enough that the ink itself smeared at my touch (not that it wasn't smeared already thanks to the master's shoddy bookkeeping).

There had been three deliveries of the stuff in the past fortnight to come in by train, two to various people in the village who had every business ordering it…but I was gratified to find that the third had indeed arrived in the name of the count and was of a quantity large enough not only to produce the fog that Haight and I had seen that night over a week ago, but enough to do it more than once, indicating that the culprit intended for this ghostly apparition to appear again…and in the near future, for even in temperatures like these one could not store dry ice forever.

"_Vielen dank_," I said absently, closing the book and swiftly leaving the office, barely hearing the yawned response of the station master.

It had not been a very helpful discovery, merely confirming the hypothesis I had already concocted, but it if I could find which of the household had come to pick up the ice along with the other deliveries then I might be able to find where it had gone. It also had one other implication…as little interest as the Count appeared to take in the small domestic details of his household, it would be easy to slip such an order into the expenses without his notice. But to do so the individual who ordered it would have to be fairly high in position…someone who had the authority to look over the ledgers of the kitchen and so on.

One of the Count's household was in on this scheme, I now knew for certainty, and with a little luck and some tactful persuasion I should find out when I arrived back at the castle – that would be my foremost priority at this stage. I wished there were some way to get that news back to Watson, for the confirmation of my suspicions regarding one of the staff made me not a little uneasy that he and the boy would be running about the castle all afternoon without me.

But there was another line of inquiry that I had to follow while I was here, and, leaving the station, I strode into the center of the village to accomplish it, barely taking notice of the picturesque houses with their snow-laden roofs and frosted glass windows.

I navigated my way through the crowd that gathered inevitably in the crux of any community, dodging craftsmen, and mothers with bundles of squalling, red-faced children, making my way to the stables where Keller had sheltered our sleigh and horses for the time being. The early afternoon sun did nothing to warm the air, and my breath was crystallising round my head as I approached the stable.

I found the man brushing down the pair, murmuring to them in the manner of all good ostlers, comfortable and in his world of straw and well oiled tack-leather, competent in his handling of the great beasts as they snorted and stamped occasionally, warm breath curing up from their nostrils in the cold air.

"Keller," I said, entering the stable and shutting the door behind me to keep in what warmth there was.

He turned in some surprise. "Herr Holmes…you do not want to leave yet…it would be better if we allowed the horses some rest."

"No, no, my good man," I said, pulling off my hat, gloves, and overcoat. "I need to borrow your coat."

His surprise turned to outright confusion. "Herr Holmes?"

"Your coat, man. I'll return it, never fear. Where is the local pub?"

He shrugged out of the coat reluctantly at my beckoning, spluttering out directions.

I pulled on the thick wool jacket, snatched up some dirt from the floor and dusted it on my face and the backs of my hands.

"_Danke_, I'll be back in two hours, three at the most…have the horses ready, would you?"

Ever more puzzled, Keller nodded, putting on my discarded jacket and absently going back to his work, pulling out a blanket to drape over one of the horses.

I pulled up the collar of the borrowed coat to hide my own shirt and cravat, which were of a better quality than those of the men that I was about to join; as the wind was bitter and every intelligent person in the village was doing the same it would attract no notice. Adopting a slumping attitude completed the impromptu disguise, and though it was far from what I would have liked to employ, it would have to do on this occasion.

I followed Keller's instructions to the local tavern, where I shouldered my way through the small crowd that had already gathered after finishing their morning's work, finding a seat near some of the other occupants and ordering a glass of cheap beer which actually was passable, as most German brews were.

For a short while I said nothing but only listened to the other's chatter, waiting for an opening, and it was not long before I at last heard it from one particularly talkative, bearded drinker beside me, referring to the Count and the upcoming marriage.

I smiled into my mug before turning to join the conversation, thanking heaven that my German apparently was quite passable, and was quite gratified…what else had these people to talk about in such a small village?

It was an standard not only in England but throughout the globe…if one wanted to find out about the local gentry, the best place was the nearest public house. As I had told Watson more times than I could count, and he still insisted upon conveniently forgetting that fact when investigating on his own. I hoped his time at the castle was being spent wisely.

_**Watson**_

"Boo!"

I admit to yelping, quite startled, as that infernal child jumped out at me from behind a tapestry and then doubled over laughing when I stumbled backward in surprise.

"Alfred Weber!"

"Cor, blimey, Oi got both me names ag'in," he muttered, grinning like a smug cat at my annoyed glare.

I sighed, wishing to heaven there had been enough room for me in that sleigh this morning, and wondering wistfully if Lachlan and Haight's train had left Bavaria yet. Blasted American newspapers, making them leave while the seaman was still obviously recuperating, despite his hardy appearance. I ought to write to the editor…perhaps I would…

"Alfie, don't touch that!" I suddenly called, for the lad was fiddling with a large and very heavy battle-axe attached to one of the suits of armour.

"C'mon, Doctor, look. 'S been blunted, see?" the lad replied calmly, pointing out the dull edge.

I wondered for a moment at the child's observational skills before remembering that of course he was one of Holmes's best Irregulars. Alfie rolled his eyes at me and leant against the wall, pulling a piece of cake – _another_ piece of cake? – out of his pocket, dusting off several lint balls and other substances that I really did not want to guess at their origins, and chomping down upon it with gusto.

"Alfie, we're having luncheon in less than an hour, and you'll spoil it!"

"Nah," (at least I believed that was what the child said round a mouthful of cake) "dnwryDoctrroilbefyn."

"Empty your mouth, lad," I said dryly, dusting crumbs off my jacket…oh, they were wet. Lovely.

Alfie gulpeddown his mouthful. "Oi'll still eat, Doctor, don' worry!"

"You had better," I admonished, taking a look at the map I was holding, for I never went anywhere in the castle without the diagrams as on one embarrassing occasion I had gotten lost without it and had taken two hours to find my way back to the main halls.

"Where we at?" the boy asked, peeking behind another tapestry.

"You made me chase you all over, Alfie, I'm trying to see," I growled, tracing the corridors. "You should know better than I; you were running around here with Mueller whilst Mr. Holmes and I were in Vienna."

"Well, but oll tha' fella did was put wood in oll the rooms and dust and count things," Alfie growled, "and go over books an' stuff."

"Go over books?"

"Well, y'know, loike ta decide what ta order fer the cook ta fix fer dinner. Oi asked 'im if'n 'e could get kippers, an' 'e didn' even know what they _were_, Doctor!"

I chuckled, for the lad looked absolutely scandalised at the idea of _anyone_ not knowing what a kipper was. Finally I located our position on the diagram and turned our steps toward the dining hall, for I wanted to ask the Lady Cecilia a few questions.

Once we had reached the dining hall, we found it empty but I glimpsed the Lady going into the conservatory down the corridor and followed, leaving Alfie in the dining hall in a chair with strict instructions to stay there.

"Lady Cecilia?" I called before the door closed.

"_Ja, _Herr Doktor?" she returned pleasantly, leaving the door open and taking a seat, graciously motioning me to another facing her.

"Might I ask you something about this apparition you have been seeing?"

"Certainly, Herr Doktor," she had switched over to English out of graciousness to my slower German.

"When this ghostly woman appeared to you those few times, did you notice anything peculiar about her?"

The woman blinked for a moment. "Besides the fact that I was seeing what the legend refers to as the ghost of a cursed bride?" she asked with a small smile.

I laughed. "Yes, of course. I meant more about her appearance than anything else, Lady Cecilia."

"Her appearance?" the woman asked slowly, her fair brows drawing together slightly.

I nodded. "When I saw her the other night, I noticed that the woman's ghost was wearing a very modern wedding dress – modern in cut and style, and most definitely _not_ medieval as one would think the legend to be. Did you notice that?"

I stopped my questions, for the lady had suddenly paled. "Lady Cecilia, are you –"

"I…am quite all right, Herr Doktor, _Danke_," she replied faintly. After taking a deep breath, she looked back at me in a bit more control. "I am afraid I was rather too frightened the times I saw her to notice that fact; I am sorry. What does that mean, then, Herr Doktor?"

"Simply that I believe you have less to fear than previously, for obviously the person behind the apparition is indeed just that, a living person," I said in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, "for only a living person would use a modern wedding dress."

I was quite startled at the intensity of the relief that flooded the Lady's features at my statement…Holmes was right, something was off about the woman. Why should she have been so very frightened of something, when that was obviously against her strong character? And why such intense relief upon my telling her we knew it for certain to be a living person?

I was about to put another question to her, but at that moment Lehmann stalked into the room and stiffly announced luncheon, shooting me a rather disdainful glance as I now had wrinkled the chair covering I had been sitting on.

As the Lady rose I hastily did as well and we set off for the dining hall. I trailed behind a bit, questions whirling through my brain with a staggering rapidity…and I hoped fervently that Holmes would decide to return from town early tonight so that he could make clear what was only a murky, clouded mess to my less apt mind.


	26. He Will Not See Me Stopping Here

_Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow._

_- Robert Frost (1874–1963)_

* * *

_**Watson**_

Unfortunately, the wood storeroom was indeed as Holmes had said, of no use to us. The wood was piled neatly along the stone walls and apparently was taken off in layers rather than in stacks – in consequence, there was no possible way it could have been drugged in this room and then happened to be delivered only to Holmes's.

"What now, Doctor?" Alfie asked boredly, chucking a smaller piece of kindling at the wall and watching it splinter.

"I'm going to have to go investigate the stables now, Alfie," I replied, shutting the door behind me. "If you want to come then you'd better bundle up warmly. Coat, scarf, and mittens, mind."

The lad nodded and scampered ahead of me to our rooms, where he hastily donned the warm clothing. We then made our way through the cold corridors and into the even chillier outdoors, tramping through the snow to the stables.

No sooner had we drawn within a hundred yards than there was a long joyous whoofing and Ada came bounding out of the partially-open stable door. Alfie shrieked and ran for the nearest tree before I could stop him, climbing like a monkey up into its snowy bare branches and hollering at the top of his little lungs for me to 'get tha' bleedin' dog away from me!'.

"Alfie, she's not going to hurt you!" I called, trying not to laugh at the poor lad's fright. "And get down here this instant, you'll break your neck!"

The young fellow whom we had encountered while searching for Haight and Alfie below stairs came running from the stables, shouting excitedly in German what I thought was an apology, taking hold of the eager dog's collar as she barked excitedly and jumped at the tree branch. Alfie squealed and shrank back, trying to pull himself further up.

"_Entschuldigung, Herr Doktor. Ich war gerade den Hund ausführen und dabei ist er mir entwischt,_"the lad apologised profusely, tugging on the hound's collar.

_"Keine Ursache, junger Mann, aber könnten sie ihn vielleicht für ein paar Minuten irgendwo einsperren? Ich würde ihnen gerne einige Fragen stellen, falls sie die Zeit dazu erübrigen könnten," _I asked, for there was no possibility of my asking some questions peaceably with Alfie clinging to my legs for fear of Ada.

"_Ja, ja,_ _Herr Doktor_." The lad tugged harder on the dog's leash, and with a dejected whine of disappointment Ada followed the stable boy back into the stable and I heard a distant clink of chain followed by another whine.

"Come on, Alfie, she's gone now," I said gently, holding out my arms for the lad to drop out of the tree.

Alfie gulped and looked down at me. "I – I c-can't, Doctor," he wailed, seeing how high up he had gone without realising.

"Well I can't come up there to get you, my boy;" I said ruefully, for there was no way I could ever climb a tree again with a bad shoulder and leg, "just drop. I'll catch you and it's not that far."

"But yew can' catch me, not wit' tha' bad shoulder, Doctor," the lad wailed.

Blast it, he _would_ remember that.

"Alfie, move your feet first, back along the branch, and then grab hold of that smaller one there," I directed with a sigh, making a mental note to stay far away from trees from now on with the urchin.

The boy gulped and shuffled his boots through the snow until he could grab a lower branch, then swung himself to the next one.

"One more now, that's it…Alfie, look out!" I shouted as he grabbed what was apparently a dead branch, and far too small one anyway for his small weight…but I was too late.

I dove forward to try to catch him as he yelped and began to fall, and he landed squarely on me as we went tumbling into the snow. I winced at the force of the impact, but thankfully the Irregular had been atop me and not underneath.

I got my breath back after spitting out a mouthful of snow and turned to the shaken child. "You all right, my boy?"

Alfie nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. "Oi'm sorry, Doctor…"

"It's all right," I said hastily, helping him up and dusting the snow off his coat. "Just stay away from the trees from now on, eh?"

The lad sniffled and nodded. "Oi don' feel so good," he whimpered.

"That's probably just fright," I soothed, "or those six pieces of cake you've had today. No more sugar until tomorrow, all right?"

The boy nodded, sticking to me like a little burr as the young groom emerged again from the stable, introducing himself as one Kurt Meyer. The lad spoke only a little English, and so I blundered along as best I could in my slower German until Alfie finally had pity on me and volunteered to perform some more rapid translation to inquire after the horses' whereabouts on the night Holmes and I had seen the ghostly rider.

Yes, he and the other two stable lads had been in their rooms above the stables all night. No, there had not been any disturbance, nor had the horses shown any signs of being used during the night. He definitely would have noticed had they been. He was most insistent on the point, and looked so absolutely horrified at the very idea that someone had borrowed a horse to perform some nefarious work that I nearly smiled but refrained myself.

Holmes had been correct in his supposition, then. The ghostly rider was no doubt keeping his horse in some building elsewhere.

_"__Meyer, sind sie gerade sehr beschäftigt oder könnten sie mir für einen Moment helfen?"_

"_Nein_, _Herr Doktor,_" the lad replied curiously.

I had just remembered Holmes's instructions to not go anywhere by myself, and would far rather have the amiable young groom to accompany me than one of those insufferable nobility. Besides, with the language barrier he would not be so prone to ask many embarrassing questions.

"Would you take a few hours to show me around the estate, I would like to see the outbuildings," I asked in German, hoping I had used the correct wording. Alfie made a clapping motion with his hands accompanied by an impertinent smirk – yes, I had. Pesky urchin.

"_Natürlich_, Herr Doktor. It will be a good four or five hours, however, at least," the young fellow warned me in his rapid German, indicating the sky above us.

I glanced up at the grayish cloudy sky. Well, if it began to snow early, we could always return easily enough. I affirmed the plans, and Meyer turned to shout for another of the lads to saddle two horses for us and a smaller one for Alfie.

"Blimey, ain't it a bit cold ta be ridin' round for the 'ole bloomin' afternoon?" the lad gasped, rubbing his mittened hands together.

"If you get too cold, Alfie, we'll go back, all right? Or you could stay here with the Lady Claudia…"

"_Nein, nein_!" the lad's franticness reverted his speech back into German, and I laughed at his desperate manner as he hastily latched onto the horse, swinging himself up onto its back with ease – Haight must have taken him riding more than we had.

I mounted as well, and Meyer followed me, asking which direction I should like to see first. The closest outbuilding was only a quarter of an hour's ride, and so we set off in that direction. I out of habit reached into my coat pocket to ensure my revolver was still there, ready for use if necessary.

Hopefully we would not have need of it.

_**Holmes**_

I left the pub some two and a half hours later, the gears in my head grinding with the implications of the latest information that I had gathered from the garrulous locals.

Strauss and his sister, it seemed, were the children of a wealthy manufacturer of textiles who was positioned in a city nearby (the half-tipsy men I had been talking to could not agree on _which_ city; I must find out by a more reliable source), and, while conveying some business with the Count only two years ago, had somehow managed to introduce his client to his daughter, the local consensus being that that was his intention all along…though I doubted it, since such fairytale arrangements only occurred in the lurid stories of which Watson was so fond.

His son, a rebellious child from the start, had spent several years of his young adulthood hanging with a rough crowd where he became an avid drinker and gambler among other irresponsible pursuits. It was only in the last few years he had been persuaded to cease such activities and return to his family, where he worked under his father. Though again, the locals who knew him claimed that he still dabbled in his irresponsible activities when not in sight of his family, and that his conduct had nearly cost Cecilia her engagement to the count in the early stages of their arranging the thing.

When the two had begun courting, to the great shock of the other gentry and local countryside, the Count had invited Strauss down along with his sister not only as a chaperone but also to gain an estimation of his character.

From what I had encountered of the man, he seemed to care very little whether he impressed his sister's suitor or anything else in general. I wondered for a moment at this thing people called love…for in my mind nothing short of blackmail, and possibly not then, would cause me to marry a woman whose brother was so perfectly detestable. But that had no bearing on the case…I sighed ruefully, for without Watson to keep my mind on track I was as guilty of fancies as he was on a regular basis. The present, then.

I had also learned a deal about the Count's cousins, both of whom had spent a deal of time traveling after gaining the usual amount of education befitting their class at prestigious schools in Europe.

Lady Claudia's travels had centered mostly in Europe and America, (which gave some explanation for her brash attitude – I must remember to tell Watson that so he would have some kind of weapon against the woman) while her brother's had extended farther to the Middle East and even parts of Asia.

These thoughts were still running through my mind, churning and twisting and trying to sort them into what was useful and what was merely coincidental, when I reached the stable and found Keller ready with the horses. I glanced up at the sky – it was a good thing I had not remained in that pub for longer, for the almost daily snowstorm looked as if it were moving a bit more rapidly than we had planned upon this morning, and we had a two-hour sleigh ride now.

"Are you ready to leave, Herr Holmes?" Keller asked, climbing to his feet and accepting his coat with a very bemused glance as I held it out. "Did you find what you needed?"

"Partially," I muttered absently to myself, only half-hearing the man as I shrugged back into my own overcoat and put on my gloves. "And yes…it is about time we headed for Weissberg Castle…after one more quick stop."

It was actually two stops, the first one being for me to obtain some more tobacco – without it I should be in rather a bad temper and unable to concentrate, neither of which was an appealing prospect for either myself or the people who would have to deal with me.

But we made the last stop, a local tailor's shop where I disrupted the good proprietor by examining several bolts of cloth that had come from the Strauss family textiles in Vienna...wait, _Vienna_?

No doubt the proprietor thought I was entirely mad, as I stood there for a full two minutes while a piece of the puzzle that had been bothering me – namely, the distance issue, what connection had Vienna besides the fact that Lachlan and Haight had been there did the place have with Bavaria? – fell neatly into place.

It was too great a coincidence to be just that, a coincidence. Something was wrong here, something was very wrong. Lachlan had been attacked not just because he had been associated with us, but also because they had been just too conveniently placed. Then the other attacks had accelerated once Lachlan and Haight had moved to the castle…that bespoke of someone taking advantage of their close proximity or…I should have to check this angle out.

Or better yet, telegraph Haight and have him investigate. No doubt they would welcome a chance to do something besides salvage their contacts for the petty newspaper issue. I would send him a telegraph as soon as I left the office here. But for now…

After trying for twenty minutes to sell me on the idea of a new winter suit, the poor perplexed man permitted me to buy a selection of samples, which I tucked hastily into my coat before climbing back into the sleigh to begin the long journey back, making a short stop to compose and send a telegram for Lachlan and Haight to be delivered on their last train.

As we progressed and the snowy trees and hills swept past us, the blades of the sleigh throwing the crystal-like snow up on either side of the vehicle, my thoughts returned inevitably to the case, trying desperately to make sense out of these unrelated – or were they all related somehow? – incidents, facts, and clues. It was a murky morass of too much information and not enough of some things; and every step we took, we seemed to sink deeper into it.

_**Watson**_

I swung up onto my mount with a weary sigh, shivering a bit under my coat as the wind whipped through the woods with more force than I would have thought possible in such dense forest. We had been at this for a good four hours now, and it was nearly dinnertime.

"Only four more stops, Alfie," I said encouragingly as we set off down the snowy trail again.

"Oi sure 'ope yew find whateva yer lookin' for, Doctor," the lad whimpered miserably, and I eyed him with a mounting concern…Alfie was not prone to whining normally, and he did look a little peaked. It could just be the cold, though he insisted he was not overly chilly.

"Are you feeling all right, lad?"

The boy nodded silently, holding tight to the reins. I frowned and glanced over my shoulder at Meyer, who was yawning as the chilled temperature bit into us.

I was thoroughly frustrated now, as we had visited no less than eight outbuildings, some mere sheds and several more elaborate lodges, without finding so much as a hoofprint to give us a clue as to the horseman's whereabouts. Granted, it had snowed since then but I would still think that there had been _some_ traces of him!

The next two buildings yielded no more by way of helpful clues than the others, and we now had made almost a complete circle round the castle and were back on the northern side of the forested acres with only two more stops.

"Herr Doktor," Meyer called.

I reined up and turned in the saddle. The lad pointed above the snow-laden trees to a rapidly gathering cloudbank, glittering with the promise of a snowfall that was rather ahead of its nightly schedule.

"We have only two, three hours perhaps before the storm is upon us," he said in his rapid German, and after processing the fact I nodded.

"We've only two more stops, and they are closer to the castle than we are now – plenty of time to visit them and get back before it hits. It should not take more than an hour," I replied.

I glanced at Alfie, and saw him leaning wearily against his horse's neck, his face hidden in its mane. I reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder gently.

"Oi don' feel so good, Doctor," he moaned, turning a pale face under his freckles to meet mine mournfully.

"In what way?" I asked, immediately concerned. I felt his forehead, but he had no fever…

"Me stomach 'urts," he grimaced.

I sighed. "Alfie. Exactly how much cake did Lady Claudia give you?"

"Four pieces," he mumbled.

"And how much did you take that she did _not_ give you?"

"The rest of it," he moaned, slumping against the horse.

I had to laugh, now that I knew nothing more was wrong with the lad besides a stomach ache from eating a coffeecake in its near entirety over the course of the morning and early afternoon.

"'S not funny, Doctor!" he wailed, clutching the horse's mane with both hands, blinking back miserable tears.

"I'm sorry, Alfie," I immediately wiped the smile from my face and patted his small back encouragingly. "Look, why don't you ride back to the castle with Meyer, and I'll follow you in fifteen minutes after I check those last two buildings."

"Mr. 'Olmes said –" the lad tried valiantly to protest, but he was growing progressively greener by the minute and I overruled him with no trouble.

"Mr. Holmes said he wanted those buildings examined, and there's only two left – and we're only an hour away from the castle; I'll be back before dark. I don't want you catching cold or anything else while you're not feeling well, Alfie. Meyer?"

"_Ja_, Herr Doktor?"

"Take the _Junge_ back with you, I'll be along directly," I said, giving Alfie a reassuring pat and wheeling my horse on the cross-trail.

The path was clear through the woods, I had a map and my revolver, and nothing possibly could go wrong this close to the castle. And I was extremely worried about the poor lad, for he looked ready to fall off the horse.

Alfie tried to protest once more and gave up with a moan, covering his mouth and whimpering. Meyer's young face, red with the cold, twisted into a grimace of sympathy and he pulled the pale child onto his own horse, taking the reins of Alfie's mount in one hand and wrapping the other arm round the boy's thin waist.

"Be careful, Doctor," the lad called miserably, giving up the fight with a sniffle and leaning back against the young groom.

"I shall, don't worry. I'll see you in an hour and a half, no more," I called, flicking the mare under me with the reins and starting off on the cross trail, keeping a wary eye out for any movement whatsoever. Holmes would no doubt have my head later for going off alone, but the boy was ill and his feeling better was far more important than any over-reactive safety measures.

I reached the next building, which was merely a small storage building for hunting equipment, to find that apparently nothing had been disturbed. Perhaps Holmes was wrong, and the horseman was from a neighbouring estate…though that would be a ridiculously long ride. No, not possible, for we had seen the horseman in the beginnings of a snowstorm that night; he had to have had shelter close by.

Either my observational skills were horribly inept, which was entirely possible, or else the horseman had taken to hiding his traces very well and finding a place to keep the horse during the day…unless for some reason this last building decided to defy the trend of the others and yield something for my pains.

The temperature was dropping fast now, and a few small flakes began to swirl past my ears as I headed for the other building, which was a small lodge according to the map I held and peered at in the fast-falling twilight.

I turned my collar up and broke the horse into a careful trot down the snowy path, hoping that Holmes had not been so wrapped up in his case that he had neglected to notice the weather; he could be most negligent at times regarding his own safety and health, and I should not like to have seen him marooned in town during the storm and not make it back, or worse yet to have started late and be caught in a two-mile drive through the snowfall.

As my mind had been on those thoughts instead of the path in front of me, when I heard the distant whinny of another horse I jerked back to the present with a start, staring ahead of me into the shadows of the woods…black on white on grey with the snowy shadows made for a confusing jumble of images and I could see nothing; but I was not yet close enough to be at that other building…

Holmes's warning rang through my mind and I hastily turned my mount into the thick trees, stopping behind a clump of evergreens at a point where I could see the path, and praying that my horse's hoofprints would not be visible in the falling dusk.

For a moment there was no sound save the drip-dropping of snow off the trees behind me and the wind howling, bringing with it a gust of icy flakes that bit into my clothing and needled my skin. I shivered, and my horse snorted her displeasure at the cold.

But a moment later the crisp pattering of hooves upon packed snow broke the stillness of the evening, and I held my breath, nearly coughing as the icy air entered my lungs but controlling it with an effort, peering through a gap in the branches.

And through the swirling snow that was beginning to fall softly to dust everything in sight that stopped it from hitting the ground, a weird glow began to emanate from the path ahead, and a moment later the ghostly figure of a horse and rider emerged through the spaced trees onto the path, the rider's clothing glowing with that same unearthly light we had seen before.

I started as the figure approached my hiding place, my eyes seeing the apparition but not believing the thing, for the fellow was dressed in the garb of a medieval hunter – leggings, tunic, and with a cross-bow attached to the saddle...and only a thin jacket to protect from this bitter weather…that was ridiculous, he had to be freezing. Unless…

Unless he were not human…

No. Holmes's voice rang in my head, telling me it was no more a ghost than that bride I had seen – phosphorus for the glow, and as for the not being cold…I had no idea but did not bother to think upon the matter at the moment. Should I try to follow the thing, or simply observe all I could and make all haste back to the castle to tell Holmes and see what he had to deduce about the matter?

I was still debating when that blasted mare snorted once again, sending puffs of steam into the air. I took in my breath and held it, hoping and praying desperately that the rider now drawing near me had not heard the stupid beast.

Apparently he had not…but his own horse had, for it stopped and whinnied shrilly in response, the sound echoing eerily in the trees and the wind. Blast.

My horse shifted with a slight jingling of harness and whinnied back before I could think of what to do, and the rider's head shot up to look round him. I nearly gasped, for the fellow was wearing a black mask that only added to the complete grotesqueness of the entire affair.

I craned my neck to see what he was going to do…and was horrified to see him warily pick up the crossbow and aim it directly at my hiding place!

* * *

_Uh-oh, cliffie! --ducks-- _

_Don't worry - I am leaving on Monday for a five-day trip (I'm a counselor for teenagers at summer camp this week) and will not have internet or time to write while away, so this cliffhanger will be resolved by Sunday night, I solemnly promise. We're not _that_ cruel. :)_

* * *

_Oh, and for the reviewer who requested the German translations, in order they are:_

Meyer: "I am very sorry, Doctor, I was taking the dog out for air and she got away from me."

Watson: "Quite all right, but is there a place you could put the dog up for a few minutes? I would like to ask you a few questions, if you've the time."

_then, the last one:_

Watson: "Meyer, are you doing anything important at the moment, or could you accompany me?"

_The rest should have been self-explanatory._


	27. All I Remember Is the Horseman

_All I remember is  
The horseman, the moonlit hedges  
The hoofbeats shut suddenly in the yard..._

_- Philip Larkin (1922–1986)_

* * *

_**Watson**_

I am not a fearful man by any stretch; I am and always will be a soldier to the day I depart this life. But even a soldier knows to retreat when standing would only mean heavier losses than gains. I urged my horse backward as softly as I could, intending to retreat out of cross-bow range and then to make a run for it, only to have the blasted animal under me whinny yet again. I heard an exclamation from the other rider and then hoofbeats starting toward me.

I gripped the reins with one hand, staying low, and endeavored to pull my revolver out of my thick overcoat pocket with the other, for I had no doubt I should have need of it shortly. I did not know these woods; I had no doubt that this other man did, and it would not be prudent of me to run for it when I had no idea where I would be heading. I would stand a better chance of remaining where I was than fleeing through unfamiliar terrain.

I yanked the gun from my pocket as the glow started to seep round the corner of the treeline, and I pointed it in that direction, trying to still my shaking hands; not only was I more than slightly nervous and – yes, I freely admit it – frightened at the thought of encountering this thing all alone, I was half-frozen to boot and could not hold the revolver steadily despite my efforts.

For one breathless moment in which I was acutely aware of the wind whistling through the trees in a screeching wail that raised the goosebumps on my skin even higher, time seemed to stand still and lonely. Then the rider burst round the clump of trees amid a swirling mass of flakes, and I fired a warning shot into the frigid air over his head.

If it were a real ghost, the bullet would do nothing to him anyway, and if not, then Holmes would want him alive; and with my shaking hand I dared not attempt to merely wound him as I could end up killing him.

He pulled up short, dropping the cross-bow in surprise as the bullet whistled over his head, and that interesting fact in turn surprised me…he must be mortal then, to be apprehensive of being shot. That one deliberation gave me a bit of courage and without giving myself time to consider and talk myself out of it, I urged the horse into as fast a gallop as the trees would allow – straight at the eerie figure.

The rider wheeled about on the instant and retreated. I shoved my revolver into my pocket with one hand and gripped the reins tightly with the other, my first fear being replaced by absolute elation…if the thing were wary enough of me to run instead of attacking, then I stood an excellent chance of caching the apparition. And when I did, we should have a vital clue to the solution of this mystery. I was thrilled to think what Holmes would say when I came riding up to the castle with the cowed ghost in tow, and I urged the horse onward after the fleeing rider.

We pounded down the snowy path for only a hundred yards or so before the ghostly figure quite suddenly left the path and plunged into the trees at a break in them, picking his way with ease over the logs, thickets, and other debris of which I was less familiar. I was forced to slow a bit to keep my horse from killing herself or me, and the horseman in front of us drew further away from me, glancing over his shoulder at me amidst the swirling snow.

I felt the mare tense and then saw a log in the path. I tightened my knees and moved forward in the jumping position. The horse cleared the log with ease and we settled back into the steady trotting; I glanced up to see that the horseman had also slowed for some reason…odd…one would think his main objective would be to put as much distance between us as possible.

The horse danced round a small snow-covered bush, prancing slightly as a rabbit hopped out in front of us. I kept tight hold of the reins and the gallant animal kept onward after only a nudge. We were gaining on the figure now, as we both were having to pick our way through the trees.

But the trees were thinning, I noticed – were we coming to the edge of the woods? Surely not, we had not been going for that long. A clearing, then. A sudden gust of wind blew a spray of snow into my face, and I shook my head clear to see with delight that I had closed the gap between us by several yards.

The 'ghost' looked over its shoulder at me once more, that mask black against the greenish glow and white snow, and then turned and flicked its horse into a faster trot. The trees were thinning, as was the debris, and so without these obstructions I followed suit at a faster canter. In just a few moments I should have caught up with him!

He threw another look over his shoulder at me as I closed the distance between us, slowly and surely, the only sounds around us being my excited breathing and the chunky thumping of hooves upon snow and frozen earth. I was only a few lengths behind the rider now, and I reached for my revolver again, intending to fire another warning shot and if he did not stop, to wing him or the horse if I could do so without chancing killing the apparition.

Removing anything, especially a heavy loaded gun, from one's coat pocket is difficult when on a rapidly moving animal, and I was still struggling to pull the blasted weapon out when the rider I was nearing threw one more glance behind him as we reached a sort of clearing in the treeline, and then accelerated his pace.

I kicked my mount gently into a gallop, chasing him, and glanced down to see that the revolver had got caught on the heavy broadcloth of my coat. I gave it a solid yank, pulling the weapon free, and then glanced back ahead of me – only to see that the horseman was a mere few yards in front of me now.

I began to close the distance, both of us dashing into the opening in the trees at almost full speed now that the path was clear of obstacles, and started to bring up the revolver in a tentative test aim, bouncing about on the mare's back and trying to keep my hand steady.

But as I did so, trying to sight the thing and still keep hold of the horse, suddenly the target in front of me halted and veered right so suddenly that I could not follow the movement, so swift and immediate had it been.

I lowered the gun in surprise, glancing after the figure fleeing to the right, and took the reins to halt my horse, to turn and give chase…and then I saw why the apparition had veered. My stomach dropped completely into my shoes.

I barely had time to perceive the yawning ditch in front of me before the mare was desperately trying to leap the three-foot-wide hollow in the snowy ground, all but invisible in the whiteness until one was directly on top of it. For a breathless moment it seemed we were literally flying, and then…

The only sound in the world more chilling than the scream of a woman in pain is that of a horse in agony. I had heard it more times in Afghanistan than I cared to ever remember, and I heard it now as the poor animal had not had time to either judge the distance or prepare for the jump.

I had no time to realise what was happening until I felt a sickening jerk that near snapped my neck accompanied by the ear-rending scream of the injured mare, and I was thrown completely from the horse's back into a biting icy air current.

I dimly registered the sense of complete dizziness, of sailing through the freezing evening air before seeing a large snow-covered tree coming far too quickly into my sense of vision. I braced myself but still was not prepared for the bone-jarring thud of its impact and the flashing pain that exploded in my head and shoulder as I fell down into the numbing, frigid snow.

My last conscious perception was that of the wind howling triumphantly…or was that the apparition laughing? I could not discern, and gave up attempting to as the white on black merged into a murky grey and covered me completely in its beckoning stillness.

_**Holmes**_

By the time I glimpsed Weissberg Castle ahead of us in the twilight, the snow was falling fairly steadily round us, covering everything (including me, confound it) with a thick dusting of cold wet flakes. I was cold, slightly damp, and rather in a miserable temper by the time Keller dropped me in outside the front entrance and sped off with a crackling of ice to put away the sleigh.

I stumbled into the entryway with a flurry of snow, stamping my boots and removing my wet gloves. Lehmann looked askance at me and my dripping outerwear but took my wet wraps from me with only a mutter. I was about to ask where Watson and Alfie were when the lad himself came tearing down the hallway, calling my name at the top of his high young voice.

"Mr. 'Olmes! Mr. 'Olmes!"

"Hullo, lad," I smiled despite my chilliness as the boy ran up to me. "Where's Watson?"

My smile disappeared as the lad's worried green eyes met mine and he gulped nervously.

"I told 'im not to do it, Mr. 'Olmes, but oi was sick, oi was real sick, an' 'e said it wouldn' be long, an' it's been three hours now, an' 'e said 'twouldn't be but an hour an' a half, an' 'e 'asn't come back yet -"

Alfie's Cockney accent was even thicker and more rapid than normal – a sure sign he was completely upset, and I possessed far less patience than Watson did in dealing with distraught children.

But that was not my primary concern. I dropped to one knee on the lad's eye level and attempted to slow my breathing, which had quite suddenly begun to race at what little of the garbled speech I could understand.

"Alfie. _Where is he?_"

The boy gulped and tugged nervously on his jacket. "Oi don' know, Mr. 'Olmes."

I felt a cold chill worm its way down my back and I carefully tamped down on the overwhelming urge to panic, trying my hardest to be patient with the near-hysterical child.

"Alfie," I breathed slowly, "start from the beginning, please."

The lad swallowed, rubbed his eyes, and nodded. "We was checkin' the outbuildings, Mr. 'Olmes."

"Alone?" Surely Watson would never do such a thing. He could be heedlessly impulsive and reckless at times, but never would he blatantly disobey my orders without some extremely strong reason…no, Alfie was shaking his head.

"No, no, the groom, Mr. Meyer, was wit' us," the lad hurried on, "an' we was almos' done an' me stomach was 'urtin' somethin' terrible, oi ate too much cake for breakfas', Mr. 'Olmes…"

I resisted the urge to shake _the_ _facts and_ _nothing else_ out of the lad but refrained myself, closing my eyes and trying to remain calm, to stop both my irritation and my racing heartbeat.

"An' so 'e tol' Mr. Meyer ta take me back ta th' castle, an' 'e would check the last two buildin's an' then meet us back 'ere," Alfie went on, and I saw tears beginning to well up in his eyes – blast, the last thing I needed on top of this was a bawling child.

"An 'e said 'e wouldn' be more than an hour an' a 'alf, Mr. 'Olmes…an' it's been near three now!" the boy finished shakily.

I swore under my breath at the lad's words…Watson had a horribly dangerous habit of letting his feelings override his usually sound judgment; an expensive flaw that marked the enormous difference between his character and mine. His worry for the child had made him do something incredibly stupid. Pray heaven he would not regret it, but the unease crawling up the back of my neck in a cold chill told me otherwise.

"Lehmann!" I bellowed after the retreating butler, scrambling to my feet and darting after the surprised German. I snatched my coat and hat from the man and ran back to Alfie.

"Where exactly did you leave him, Alfie?" I demanded, knowing my tone was harsh and frankly not caring – that snow had been falling for close to two hours now, and if he'd been caught out in it, even uninjured, he could be in serious danger.

"The nort' side o' the woods, Mr. 'Olmes," the lad gasped. "'E said 'twas an hour ride from 'ere, an' 'e only 'ad two more places ta visit."

I knew the spot, from our trek out that way earlier. He should have been back by now, far before now. I turned for the door, fumbling to shove my suddenly unsteady hand into my glove.

"Wait for me, Mr. 'Olmes!"

"You are not coming," I shot back over my shoulder impatiently – there was no time to be lost – "the storm is too bad. Go find the Count and tell him what's happened."

"But Mr. 'Olmes!" the lad practically wailed over the roar of the wind as I opened the door again, buttoning my coat the wrong way in my haste and snarling impatiently as I moved the buttons to the correct holes.

"Alfie," I schooled my features into an emotionless mask and spoke with a voice which calmness surprised even me, for I felt anything but under control. "Watson would never forgive me if I brought you along with me into this storm with an hour's ride one way. We can't give him something else to worry about, all right?"

A large tear rolled out of one little eye, and my Irregular sniffled and brushed it away angrily.

"Roight, Mr. 'Olmes," he whispered at last

"Good lad. Keep an eye on things until I – _we_," I hastily corrected myself, horrified at the very thought that had just wormed its way into my mind, "until _we_ come back. And one more thing." I had just thought of something. "Alfie, I want you to go round this castle and find out if anyone else was gone during the time you were. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything, you hear?"

I barely registered the lad's tearful nod before I shut the door behind me and took off at a dead sprint for the stables, the wind yowling at my back the entire way and taking my crystallized breath away on its biting fury.

The young groom and Keller both jumped in fright as I burst into the stable, demanding a horse and a lantern, but at the sight of what must have been a pale imitation of my usually controlled face they both scrambled for the items in question. I snatched up a couple of blankets from a nearby pile – coarse and rough but they would do if the worst had happened. I had no time for further preparations, nor probably would I have been able to think of them had I the time.

"Herr Holmes, you cannot possibly fight your way through this storm – in just a half-hour darkness will have fallen and there may not even be a moon tonight!" Keller exclaimed as I swung up onto the sturdy stallion's back. "This is far too dangerous – I am sure Herr Doktor saw the storm coming up and is just resting in one of the lodges."

Would that I could be so sure. But the cold chunk of nausea sitting in my chest and refusing to melt told me otherwise, and I wasted no more time in arguing the point…nightfall was my worst enemy now with the dark and the rapidly failing temperature. I sped into the gathering twilight as fast as was safe, and perhaps a bit faster.

As the cold bit right through my gloves and coat as if I were not even wearing them, it also clawed its way into my heart as well. Why had Watson not come back? Had he encountered that horseman? Gotten lost in the forest? Been attacked? Injured? Even…I refused to think of that possibility and kicked the strong stallion under me into a faster canter.

The thought of my dear friend lying injured and freezing in the woods was more than my mind could stand at the moment, and I fiercely pushed the thoughts aside, trying to control the rising panic I felt as every stride the animal took brought fresh chill with it. The temperature was fairly plummeting, the snow falling thicker and faster now. And he was out in it, alone…

The bitter wind made my eyes water as it whipped round me before we plunged into the treeline. I blinked furiously as we had to slow pace a bit because of the trees, though the snow at least was not falling as heavily in their relative shelter.

Though my body was rapidly freezing, my mind was as clearly alert as ever and far too active, conjuring up all kinds of hellish images that would have given my recent nightmares a stiff competition for the gold medal in horror. I gripped the reins tighter, praying to whatever deity I had made a regular habit of ignoring to help me find out what had happened, and quickly.

I have heard it said that the emotions most people are prone to feeling are warm and comforting – love, compassion, even ones like hate and anger are all supposed to be warming, heated, welcoming.

The emotion called fear, however, is cold. Icy, chilling, and frigid.

After what seemed like hours but was more like one, I found by the flickering glow of the lantern I held several sets of hoofprints in the snow, on the path leading between the outbuildings. After a few yards, one set veered off in the direction of one of the buildings and I followed it, circling round the shed and then onward. I thanked heaven that the trees had at least partially sheltered the prints thus far from the driving snow.

For several minutes, I nearly kept taking my head off on low-hanging branches as I leaned over the side of the horse and followed the hoofprints, until finally they halted and then veered off the path. I dismounted, not trusting the mere lantern light to guide the horse, and led it round the trees.

My boot scuffed against something with a twanging sound, and I bent down, shining the lantern on the ground. My breath caught in my throat, for a moment dispelling the crystalline cloud round my head as I did not exhale.

A cross-bow?

I wasted no time in wondering about the odd weapon but instead found a double set of tracks and began to follow, gingerly picking my way through the snow and forest debris and leading the horse behind me.

Two riders, both going as fast as the terrain would allow…had Watson been chased or was he the pursuer? I was going mad with not knowing, feeling something closer to worry than I had felt in many months almost physically eating at my nerves, chewing them to a ragged frayed edge.

The trees began to thin, and the snow began to swirl more thickly round me then because of the sparser cover – the tracks were nearly concealed now and in a few more minutes would be completely. I hastened onward, fairly dragging the horse behind me as I stumbled and tripped through the snow.

Suddenly one set of tracks veered right, and the other kept going straight, straight into…I halted suddenly, my heart leaping into my throat to choke me at the sight in front of me.

For a moment I stood in stunned silence, and then a dead panic overrode my control and I scrambled down into the ditch to kneel by the motionless form of a dead horse, one I recognised from the Count's stables. Its neck broken, and half-covered by a cold white blanket, it was obvious what had happened; and I was (I am not ashamed to admit) so frightened by the idea that for a moment I refused to look at the snow on the other side of the beast, scared beyond measure of what I would find there. Perhaps if I did not look, it would not be true…

I remained in that kneeling position for a moment with my head down, fighting back the nausea of sheer terror that threatened to engulf me, trying desperately to stop my breathing from catching in my lungs. Then I snatched up a double handful of snow and rubbed it on my face, and the iciness slapped me back into reality and what had to be done next. I got up and, bracing myself, looked around the horse into the snow.

Nothing.

_Thank heaven_. I let out a long breath of sheer melting relief, blowing a swirl of white flakes away from me as I exhaled slowly, and climbed up the other side of the ditch, slipping in the fresh snowfall and sinking almost to my knees before I reached the top and climbed out.

Then I saw it – not ten feet away, a spreading tree with a large indentation in the snow below it that had not yet been filled by the snowfall. I floundered over to it and felt ice run through my veins for a moment…for in the midst of the white and black were splotches of crimson, fading under a dusting of fresh flakes but still visible enough to make me sick at the sight. He'd been injured, at the very least, and had gotten up to try to make it to shelter. But at least he was alive...or had been when he had started off.

There was a rapidly-vanishing set of erratic footprints, I could see dimly by the lantern in the swirling snowfall, and judging by their irregularity he had not even been fully conscious, but alert enough to know the danger he was in and was trying to seek shelter. I lost the footprints at the edge of the ditch going back the other direction, but that was enough.

Of course, if he were alert enough he would be heading for the nearby outbuilding, which if I remembered correctly was a lodge of kinds. And only a ten minute ride, more like a twenty minute walk.

I glanced briefly at the other set of retreating hoofprints – it took no great deductive skills to see that it had been a carefully laid trap by someone who knew the terrain much better than Watson did. How I wanted to follow those other hoofprints and make the perpetrator pay for what he had done; but for one thing they were disappearing in the snowfall, as there were no trees nearby in this clearing, and for another finding Watson was a far higher priority.

I dashed back across the ditch and pulled the horse after me as quickly as I dared through the woods back to the path. Once we reached it, I swung into the saddle and went far faster than was safe through the now-black woods along the path, setting the small glowing light dancing weirdly about me, casting strange and eerie shadows, the tree branches reaching out like grasping arms to prevent me from reaching my destination…I shook myself with a nervous laugh, realising I was coming dangerously close to imagining things I would criticise another man for fancying. Control, I had to remain in control. Almost there now…

I would have shouted for him, but the wind was shrieking like a deranged woman and my cries never would have been heard, nor would I have heard any answer if they had been. In some fifteen or twenty indeterminably long minutes I was pounding up to the door of the small building. My heart sank when I saw no light inside, and worse yet no tracks anywhere around the place.

I used the master key the Count had given us each a copy of, the one that fit all the locks on his outer buildings, and entered the small lodge. The door creaked and groaned, echoing emptily in the chamber, and I lit the candle on the table beside the door and peered round the single room.

Nothing.

I swore and extinguished the candle in the same breath and then slammed the door in my anger, blinking furiously with disappointment and worry, and hastened onward to the small shed behind the lodge...perhaps he had lost his key to the buildign and had gone in there instead...

Nothing there but a bale of hay and a general odour of disuse.

I gulped and turned back toward the woods, trying to decide which direction to take now - for I had to find him.

The wind howled and blew about me, causing a compulsive shiver from both me and the poor horse I had dragged along with me – but I turned up the collar of my coat and held the lantern high.

The snow was now falling so thickly that I could see no further than five feet in front of me, but once I regained the relative shelter of the woods perhaps it would not be so thick. I fervently hoped so, for I might never find him otherwise.

I had to find him, and soon, before hypothermia set in. And that was the least of it, for heaven only knew how badly he had been hurt, being thrown from a horse. I personally knew men who had been blinded, killed…or worse, paralysed, from riding accidents.

The very idea of his being an invalid for the rest of his life made me absolutely sick to think of it. _Please, please be all right, Watson…_

I grasped the horse's reins with one hand and the lantern in the other, and after taking a deep, coldly bracing breath to steady myself, I plunged into the night to find my friend.

I dearly hoped I should find him before I froze to death myself – for I certainly was not going to return without him.

* * *

_A/N: You may remember the spoilers for this event in my 221B series. We've had to tweak it just a bit, because we needed Alfie elsewhere, but the general idea is the same. Just in case anyone was wondering, yes, there were spoilers before. And yes, this will be resolved before I leave, so have no worries._


	28. As Freezing Persons, Recollect the Snow

_This is the Hour of Lead—  
Remembered, if outlived,  
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow—  
First—Chill—then Stupor—then the  
letting go—_

_- Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

The wind howled in my ears and tore at the exposed parts of my face, chapping the skin raw though I could barely feel its effects because of the cold that came along with it, seeping through my thick overcoat and then muscle and tissue to settle into my very bones.

No one could last long in such cold; it was inconceivable that anyone could trudge through this mess for more than a few minutes when it dragged at a man, sapping the strength from his limbs.

And for someone who had suffered a fall from a horse and possibly been unconscious...

No! No, I would not let that be the end of it, I had to find him…I had never wanted anything more in all my life than to see the form of my dear friend at that moment, cropping up out of the endless white expanse.

But there was nothing, only more of the same as I trudged on and on, listening to the shriek of the wind as it howled like a chorus of lost souls in the storm.

I pulled the horse with me, one arm before my eyes in a futile attempt to protect them against the onslaught. It was my natural inclination to turn away from the wind, to make it easier on myself, but if this was the way Watson had gone…

Great Scott…could that be it…could that be the very reason that I had not yet spotted my friend here or at the lodge?

I had already searched a small arc of area in front of the building but the majority of that had been against the wind, not with it.

Men did not walk straight, and most had a natural inclination to list either to the left or to the right; this was why so many found themselves going in circles in the desert only to come upon their own tracks several hours after their beginning.

I had observed that Watson's own inclination was to veer to the left since he had a habit of favoring his right leg, and the wind itself was blowing against the path he would have to have taken to reach the lodge.

I turned back at once, causing the poor beast with me to whicker in protest, though it seemed as glad as I to turn its back to the storm. If I could just find the path that Watson had started out in and go to the right which was in fact his left, letting the wind drive me as it must him…

Yes it would work…it had to work…there was no other way of finding him. I stumbled gamely onward, struggling with every step I took to lift my foot that was weighted down with thick wet snow and then drive it once again through the icy drifts before lifting the other and starting the process over again.

It was taking too long! I was confident now that I was going in the right direction, but there was no sign of him, no hint or shadow, only the white that I could barely see through despite the trees that now surrounded me.

_Blast it all, man, _cursed a voice in my head. _You're a detective, The world's only consulting detective as you so arrogantly put it - can you not find one man in a snowstorm!?_

I couldn't, there was nothing but snow, miles and miles and heaps of it, covering everything, muffling it in a great blanket, snuffing out life and leaving nothing detectable. And I…who was I to face such odds, to do such an impossible task? I had already done a splendid job of mucking up this whole affair, of underestimating my enemy and allowing him to not only torment my clients but my friends as well.

And now because of a stupid blunder upon my part in underestimating Watson's cursed tenacity I was going to lose him.

No, he was already lost, there was no way I could find him. It was impossible.

_Impossible_…a word of which Watson had been very fond early on in our acquaintance before I had dazzled him with my deductions. A word that was part of a ridiculous quote he had put into one of his stories, some drivel or other about the truth not being impossible but only improbable…some self-satisfied equation that I had given him.

Funny now how important it had seemed to me at the time, and how worthless it appeared right now.

Impossible…I could not lose him, it was impossible, _unthinkable_…I had to find him.

I pushed myself, driving my legs to move through the drifts, ignoring the complaints of exhaustion from my body as I had many times before, peering with my trained eye to notice the one detail, the one clue that would be of the most vital importance…that would help me find Watson.

I had drifted fairly far from the path between the lodge and the ditch by now…nearly twenty minutes off, surely I had gone too far…perhaps I had been wrong and he had listed to the right instead.

I was passing by a line of trees and brush and glanced to my left.

My heart stopped.

The frozen air stalled in my lungs and I felt myself, what parts of me I could still feel, go numb with shock.

There in the hedge, was a break…a passage that someone had made by crashing through, leaving a mess of trampled branches and scattered snow in their wake.

My legs took control and I stumbled as quickly as I was able towards the spot, dragging my mount with me. I scrambled through the break and out into a denser part of the forest, where the snow was not quite so thick.

There! On the ground just after the break was a mark…a footprint that had been protected from the storm by the bushes. I recognized it at once as Watson's, noted the direction, replaced the lantern on the horse's saddle and took the reins again, leading it onward in that direction.

There was a sudden tugging on the reins in my hand and I turned back to see my horse shying away from something, some irregularity, and it only took me a moment to find the dark shape in the snow.

"Watson!" I struggled through the drifts toward him, dropping the reins when the horse lagged behind, stumbling and tripping in my haste to reach him.

"WATSON!"

At last I skidded to a stop beside him, falling to my knees in the icy drift so deep that it came up past my middle, heedless of the manner in which it soaked through my clothing as I seized my friend's dark-clad shoulder and turned him over onto his back, brushing away the snow that had piled up around him.

He'd lost his cap, and his coat, boots, and trousers were covered in a layer of icy sleet, created from a combination of sweat, melting snow, and freezing temperatures. His hair was stiff with frost and all I could see of his face under the frozen muffler were his closed eyes and his snow-flecked lashes.

I tore off my gloves, heedless of how badly my hands were shaking and the cold that bit at my flesh the moment that I exposed them to the air. I further numbed them by tugging on the folds of the scarf, knocking aside the bits of ice that had coated it and caught in the knot at his throat. It was cursedly tight and I swore under my breath as I tugged at in a vain attempt to loosen it. It was too solid, Watson's own breath had contributed to the freezing of it. At last I drew my penknife from my pocket, fumbled free the blade, and carefully cut the woolen wrap away from my friend's face.

I swore again in horror, my chest and breath constricting in desperation as I took in Watson's countenance, whiter than a freshly caught fish, with a tinge of blue, his lips chapped. Was he even breathing?! Had I found him too late?!

"Watson…Watson, wake up, old fellow," I gasped, shaking him and patting his face in an attempt to bring color back into it as well as rouse him, all the instructions that I had ever heard regarding victims of cold situations fleeing my mind in one panicked instant. "Watson, look at me, open your eyes and look at me!"

There was nothing, no change in his expression nor any flickering of the eyelids. I felt the back of my own eyes burning, and not just from the cold.

"Blast it all, Watson! Why in heaven's name did you do this?! You bloody idiot!" I replaced my knife and stuck my gloves in my pocket before leaning over him once more, trying to busy my hands so as to regain my composure, or what little I had left of it.

I had to calm down, I was no good to Watson in this state. Only…this was the one situation in which I found it almost impossible to be calm, my whirling mind bordering constantly on panic.

I slid my hand beneath his collar and felt his neck, trying to ignore how cool it felt even to my cold hand, searching for the small beating of the artery that would tell me he was alive.

For a breathless moment I felt nothing, then I felt my own heart leap as it appeared, a small thready pulse that reminded one of the fluttering wings of a dying bird. I nearly went limp.

He was alive, thank God. He was alive.

But was he breathing? In another instant I had fumbled my lens out of my coat pocket and held it in front of my friend's mouth, watching with an influx of joy as the glass fogged up with the warm, moist air from his lungs.

Good man! He was here, I'd found him and he was alive!

But he would not remain so if he stayed here for much longer; I could not even tell if he was still shivering. I had to get him out of this cold now.

I looked up, searching for the horse.

It was gone! I had let go of the reins, idiot that I was! It had already been skittish and now it had bolted, not stupid enough to remain in the storm where I ventured.

The Castle was over a half hour away by horse and over an hour by foot, there was no way we would make it back without the beast. I spared no thought for the animal's fate…horses were gregarious by nature and it probably was well on its way back to the castle by now. But what were we going to do…

The solution came readily to my mind as I looked down at my friend, remembering his original purpose for coming here in the first place. The lodge, I could get him to the lodge; it was only fifteen minutes from here, I only had to waken him.

"Watson," I called in his ear over the wind, which was much dimmer thanks to the trees that surrounded us. "Watson, wake up. Wake up, man."

Still no movement…did he perhaps have a concussion? Had he injured himself internally from the fall and was now loosing blood at a rapid rate?

No, he had gotten to his feet and had gotten absurdly far for that type of his condition…his footsteps had been erratic however, indicating a blow to the head of some sort.

I pushed back his hair, searching his scalp for signs of blood, but found only a bruise that when I felt it gave no signs of being a fracture. There were a few slight abrasions at the side of it, but the small amount of blood had coagulated long ago…that accounted for the stains in the snow where he had been thrown, but obviously the scrapes were not serious, and the bruise did not appear to be particularly so either.

It must have been painful, however, for he winced as I pressed on it.

That was it, heaven help me but I had to wake him up somehow.

"Forgive me, Watson," I murmured, and with careful precision, I pressed on the colored skin just to the side of the swelling.

He winced again, his brows drawing together, and he let out a low moan that I had trouble hearing.

I patted his face again, laying my hand on his forehead.

"Good man, Watson, come on old fellow, open your eyes, come on!"

He groaned and stirred, his eyelids flickering, halting as his frozen lashes refused to part.

I brushed a hand gently across his eyes for a moment then pleaded again with him as he tried to turn his head away from the treatment, moaning and letting out a shiver as his senses began to return.

"Watson, you _must_ get up. I need you to, come on."

At last the leaden eyelids lifted revealing the familiar hazel orbs, glazed and dull and taking little interest in their surroundings.

It mattered little, he was awake.

"That's it, old man - now look at me."

He blinked, staring uncomprehendingly at the trees and snowdrifts around him, all of which were growing increasingly dark in the gloom.

"Look at me, Watson, concentrate. It's Holmes."

I laid my hand back on his forehead, rubbing the shoulder that lay closest me with the other.

He gave a slightly weary sigh and turned his head towards the sound, his brows furrowed. His eyes settled on my face.

"Holmes," I repeated, watching his face expectantly.

He stared at me for a long moment, then a light of recognition lit his eyes and they sharpened, his lips formed my name.

"That's it, Watson! I'm here!" I gripped his shoulder then drew my hand back as he suddenly grimaced, groaning again.

He'd hurt his shoulder in the fall, and his bad shoulder to boot, blast it.

"Sorry," I said automatically.

"'S all right," he rasped, just as quickly before coughing deep from in his lungs, shaking and beginning to shiver in earnest at the movement, some little colour coming back into his cheeks.

"Gently," I said, unknotting my own scarf and wrapping it around his throat. "Can you stand, Watson?"

His expression was still one of intense blank confusion; he seemed to recognise me and little else…a side effect of the hypothermia if not the blow on the head.

"I need you to stand up, Watson," I said, gripping both of his shoulders gently.

"S-stand?"

"Yes, stand up now. Come on."

I bent and levered him up out of the snow, pulling his good arm round my shoulder and rising to my knees and then my feet, raising him with me. I could feel the chill of him through both our coats, and his whole frame was shaking now with cold, his body trying its best to generate heat now that his blood was flowing again.

He swayed for a second or two and then steadied.

"Ready?" I asked, though I was unsure that he knew what I was asking.

He nodded, his hand clutching my coat, the other wrapped around himself for warmth.

I turned him back the way we had come, slowly so that he could keep up with me pushing through the drifts in an attempt to make the path easier for him.

For a while we went steadily; Watson was disoriented and shaky but still had some little strength left in him, and I was fresh compared to his own condition.

We passed the break he had left in the brambles and followed my swiftly disappearing footprints back to the path that stretched between the site of Watson's accident and the lodge we were aiming for.

Watson said nothing, only trudged on beside me, his breathing sounding very fast and shallow in my ear. Whenever I turned to look at him it was to see his head drooping low and forward, like a draft horse pulling a too-heavy load.

Soon the snow began to drag on both of us and sapped our strengths as the effort of shoving through it took its toll. Watson began to lean more and more of his weight on me, and I found myself struggling to keep him upright.

My friend began to lag, stumbling more and more often, his grip on my coat loosening, and his lungs gasping for breath.

I was so caught up in forging ahead that I hardly noticed until his legs seized up suddenly and he halted, catching me off balance.

I shouted in alarm as I fell forward, the frozen ground rushing up to meet me, too late to let go of Watson, pulling him with me. I lost hold of him as I crashed into the endless sea of snow so deep that I was certain I would disappear beneath it.

My concern for my friend drove me back up to my knees as I rubbed the frost from my face with my hands, sputtering and searching about me frantically.

"Watson!"

He had landed beside me, facedown. I could make out his trembling shoulders and head, covered once again in white.

"Watson." I reached out and pulled him up again, drawing on the final reserves of strength that I usually reserved for the last desperate hours of a case.

My chronicler was shivering violently now, his muscles jerking and twitching, his face contorted, breathing far too fast and too shallowly. Sweat beaded on his face, freezing almost instantly to create trails on his features.

"It's all right, Watson," I gasped, pulling his arm round my shoulder again. "Come on."

Watson shuddered, his eyes closed.

"C-cold, H-Holmes…"

I could barely discern the words over the wind and the chattering of his teeth.

"The lodge is just ahead, Watson, come on now. Get up."

He shook his head clumsily, made to lie down again.

"No, Watson!" I snapped, pulling him upright again. "Come on!"

"T-tired," he gasped, his head lolling. "L-leav-ve m-me alone."

My temper flared. Even as an invalid…_especially_ as an invalid, he could be terribly stubborn.

"Come _on_, Watson! We haven't the time. Get up, come on, I won't let you lie down here! Get up!"

He opened his eyes and looked at me, more confused than when I had first found him, unrecognising. I sighed and settled beside him, gently rubbing his uninjured shoulder and trying to shield him from the snow swirling and falling about us.

"Please, Watson, old chap, we're so close, come on. You've listened to me in the past, listen to me now. Get up."

There was that spark of recognition again, dimmer this time, but there.

"H-Holmes."

"Yes Watson, it's warm there, come on now. Get up."

He grimaced. "C-can't."

"You must." I began to rise slowly, pulling him up.

He tried, allowing me to help him to his feet, but his legs shook, and not just from the cold. He went limp again, trying to sink back with a moan of frustration.

"C-can't H-Holmes. C-can't f-feel m-my legs."

Blazes! Not now, we were so very close, the lodge was just ahead.

"There is no choice in the matter, Watson," I snapped, taking a firmer hold on him and pulling him forward, his feet lagging. "You _must_."

He groaned as I began to drag him with painstaking slowness through the drifts, his hand no longer clutching my shoulder, too frozen to grip onto the cloth.

The lodge was just ahead…we were almost there…I took one step, then another, my arms and legs burning and screaming with the effort, my shoulders quivering.

"Please, Watson, I know you can, come on. A little farther… a little farther…" I stepped again, ignorant now of the snow that flooded over my frozen boot, of the wind that ripped into us with renewed energy…and this time when I stepped…Watson stepped with me.

_**Watson**_

There was a steady beating just above my left ear and I had the most unusual sensation of being on a boat as I felt myself rise and fall on a very rhythmic wave. I listened to the beating and realised with some amusement that my own breathing had slowed to match it, deep and even.

My head felt heavy and slow, as though it were swathed in dark cotton.

Not that I minded, it was very peaceful here…and warm…so very warm which for some reason made me exceedingly glad. I was exhausted, my limbs as heavy and unresponsive as blocks of wood. I was so very comfortable and heavy, something covered me, weighting me down further, but I would be quite content to rest here for a long while.

But my mind would not let me; something stirred, a memory, flashes of white that cut through the muffling darkness.

It had been cold…terribly cold, which was why the warmth felt so wonderful now.

Intrigued, I found myself trying to remember now, encouraging the darkness to roll back.

There had been cold and darkness and a terrible biting wind…flashes of white between the trees as I rode after…after what…

Other senses came to my attention, the snapping and crackling of logs on a fire…of damp wood and cloth…the feel of rough, warm wool against my skin.

My quarry had been on a horse as well, I could remember snatches of his shadowy form riding through the trees.

My heart gave a sudden jolt as the chase and its terrifying ending came back to me, the terror of flying unrestrained through the air only to be brought up short against a numbing force.

I'd hit my shoulder…and my head, and as I recalled this both of them began to ache sharply, as though my body only just remembered that I should be in pain.

There was something else restraining me besides the blankets I was wrapped in, and I struggled against it feverishly.

A sigh sounded somewhere in the general vicinity of the beating that I had awoken to earlier and whatever I was leaning against shifted again, and the arm…it was an arm…slid off of me.

There were more memories…ones far more scattered and blurry…of a darker landscape… and endless trudging through the snow that burned the muscles of my legs…and that same arm, holding me upright despite my fervent pleas to be allowed to sink down into the snow, which at the time had appeared deucedly comfortable.

Whose arm?

The answer came at once, more from my heart than from logical deduction, for I knew the grip and feel of that arm, thin and sinewy as it was.

Holmes.

Again his heart sounded just above my ear. He was here…heaven only knew how…but he was here! I forced my eyes open and peered blearily about me at the small room that I recognized as the Count's hunting lodge, the one I had never reached this afternoon.

There was a great puddle in front of the door… and another larger one beneath a pile of soaked clothing. A fire burned merrily in the hearth. I myself was wrapped in a several thick blankets.

I turned my aching head to see that I was leaning against Holmes, who had settled against the wall, in his trousers and shirtsleeves, another blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

He was asleep, his eyes deeply shadowed and his head lolling against the planks of wood.

As I shifted to get a better look at him his head snapped up, and he peered about blearily, almost in confusion. I could hardly blame him, for excessive cold was sometimes more effective than a powerful drug…and if as I suspected he had come after me in that storm he should be exhausted.

His confusion only lasted a minute and he looked down at me almost at once, his eyes wide with worry, his face unshielded from its usual cold mask.

He relaxed slightly as he saw me awake, and let himself settle back against the wall with a weary sigh.

"Watson."

I smiled, feeling my lips split as I did.

"Yes, Holmes." I grimaced…my throat was horrendously dry.

"These bedside vigils grow weary, old fellow. You really must stop putting yourself in these situations."

I laughed, and shivered as the movement awoke more senses in my body, it seemed I was not yet completely thawed…I could barely move my hands or my feet.

Holmes straightened once again with concern, he put one hand on my forehead and took my pulse with the other.

When he did not remove them at once I raised an eyebrow mockingly. "Have you changed your mind about professions, Holmes, and now want to become a physician? I warn you it is not easy."

He did not laugh but sighed and reached out beside him for a mug which he brought to my mouth.

"Can you drink this, Watson…it's hot…should help."

I nodded and sipped at it, feeling its warmth trailing down my throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste in my mouth.

I sputtered and turned my head away.

"It's terrible, Holmes…what on earth is it?"

"Tea." Holmes said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "And don't make a face, you've already had several cups of it."

No wonder it was awful…I had come into contact with Holmes's attempts at making tea several times before.

"Several cups?"

He nodded.

"What happened, Holmes?"

He set down the cup.

"I came back to the castle, and Alfie told me how you had gone haring out on your own and I went after you. It took me nearly an hour, Watson."

I closed my eyes as a sudden feeling of guilt washed over me, his voice sounded very shaken.

"You were shivering like mad when I found you and got you moving and you were frozen stiff by the time I got you back here…it was two hours before I was certain you would even make it."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head wordlessly, though his hand had come to rest on my arm and it clutched the knotted muscles convulsively.

"Not as sorry as you will be if you ever do anything that foolish again…not half as sorry as I will. Blazes, Watson…I thought I had lost you."

I worked one arm free of the blankets and reached out to grip his hand with my own numb one, he returned the grip warmly.

"Thank you, Holmes," I said at last, very simply…for indeed what else was there to say? I was not used to expressing my emotions either…both of us had grown up in an age that looked down on such displays, and I felt that any words I could choose would be terribly inadequate. "I would have died if you had not found me."

Holmes smiled slightly and closed his eyes.

"My dear Watson," he said, his voice as warm as I had ever heard it. "So would I."

* * *

_As promised. :) Au Revoir, everyone - see you Friday!_


	29. Warmth Stands for All Virtue

_In the __winter__, warmth stands for all virtue._

_- Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

Day broke at last, the sunlight streaming through the frosty windows to flood the room in a watery yellow sheen. I struggled back into my still-damp wraps, for I had used the last of the wood a little while ago and would now have to go and get more from the shed behind the lodge.

Before I left I bent over my sleeping friend and pulled the blankets up tightly round him, covering his head loosely with a lighter one in preparation for the cold air that would shortly blast the room. Then I hastily jerked the door open, dashed outside into the crisp morning air, and shut it quickly behind me.

In about fifteen minutes I had the wood carrier stacked and filled and was crunching through the drifts back toward the house. I stumbled in, slamming the door behind me against the chill, and then dropped the carrier (directly on my foot, confound it) in consternation at the sight that met my eyes.

"What the devil are you doing?!"

Watson looked up at me in a visage in which confusion and pain played equal parts. After he had woken briefly last night to talk, he had dropped promptly back off to sleep against me; and after continuing the treatments until I was assured of his safety, I had put a few folded blankets under his head and had finally dozed off myself for some badly needed sleep. I was both astounded and appalled at the absolute confidence he had in me, considering he was still half-frozen and trusting me to take care of him instead of overseeing the treatment himself.

I had spent the better part of one winter in the mountains of Tibet, however, and in that time had learnt quite enough about hypothermia and frostbite to recognise and treat said maladies.

Thank heaven my dear friend appeared to have escaped what could have been a painful and even potentially deadly ailment; he had, as far as I could tell, only minor frostbite on his hands. He would be in a deal of pain and unable to use them for a few days, but there should have been no lasting damage thanks to my knowing not to rub them and instead to keep them warm and covered with towels soaked in warm water heated in the teakettle.

However, I well knew the pain that went along with frostbite due to a personal experience and as such was hoping he would have remained asleep for longer than this – we had no pain relievers to be found in the one-room lodge.

And, judging from the confused distress written in stark painfulness across my friend's features at the moment, he had just discovered the fact, the hard way, in his swollen and painful hands.

Apparently he had attempted to get his clothes on, which I had had drying by the fire all night. The trousers he had managed, but he had been struggling with the small shirt buttons when I'd stumbled in with the load of wood. I dropped the load and started toward him just as he wavered shakily, reaching hastily out for the wall to steady himself.

I jumped forward just in time to catch him as he trembled for a moment and then fell against me with a soft moan, wincing as the movement jarred what I had already discovered was a badly swollen left shoulder. It had not been dislocated, as far as my limited knowledge had been able to tell, but he had sprained or twisted the muscles very badly; it being his bad shoulder already had to make the pain at least doubled.

"Easy, Watson," I murmured as I helped him to collapse into a sitting position on the floor once more. "You should not be moving about just yet, old chap. You need to rest."

"I'm…fine…" he gasped, closing his eyes for a moment and leaning back against the wall. "Just…just a bit shaky, that's all."

"You were nearly frozen last night, Watson," I said sternly, moving my hands from his shoulders to fasten the stubborn shirt buttons and cuffs. "A sensible man would not have even tried to get up just now. I apologise for the cold waking you when I went out."

"Wanted…to get up…anyway," he said through clenched teeth, slowly rotating his injured shoulder and feeling the bruise upon his head, his face furrowing in an obvious mental checklist of symptoms, arriving finally at a diagnosis. "Shouldn't need a sling, unless I further injure it…no concussion either…that's a remarkably lucky thing."

"Good," I breathed, for the length and heaviness of his sleep had for a while worried me about the fact, though he had borne no other signs of such. "Your hands were a bit frostbitten, Watson."

"So…I see," he muttered, flexing the swollen fingers with a strangled gasp of pain. "Blast it. I won't be able to write or hold my revolver or anything else for quite a while, Holmes!"

His dismay over those two things was so comically miserable that I nearly laughed, but somehow I could not…it had been just too close a call this time; and I was still, though I tried desperately to not think about the fact, still rather frightened by the Reaper's shadow passing so close over him…us both…last night.

Watson looked over his hands once more and then glanced at me, and I watched with mingled fondness and sadness as a mask slid carefully over the pain hidden in the back of his eyes. That stubborn pride of his was just one trait that I respected so much about the man…to think that I had nearly lost him last night was sufficient to put all my other nightmares to shame in intensity.

"Excellent work, Holmes," he said quietly, "you might have saved my fingers…at the least, a good deal of pain for me, and I appreciate it. Among all the other things…"

I forced a smile to my sombre face and squeezed his good shoulder as I rose, picking up the discarded wood and carefully stoking the fire. The logs snapped and crackled as the cold crispness of the new wood mingled with the older, sending a new wave of warmth to drive out the coolness of the air I had let in upon my exiting the one-room lodge.

He was still shivering, though the room was rather warm, and I wrapped a blanket round his shoulders and re-wrapped his hands in the warm cloths before settling down beside him on the wooden floor.

"Apparently the Count's provisions encompassed no more than a teakettle, two cups, and enough for one pot of tea – nothing more by way of nourishment," I told him apologetically.

His face creased in the faintest of smiles. "I don't think I could stand another pot of your tea anyhow, my dear Holmes."

I snorted, but secretly I was pleased to see that he was feeling well enough to tweak me…for more than a few hours last night he had been so still, so quiet, that I had thought never to even hear his voice again. I shuddered, drawing my knees up to my chest and for a moment letting the dreadful thoughts run their course.

Another, more annoying habit Watson has, is his impeccably bad timing in reading my thoughts. When it would be useful for him to be a step ahead of me on a case or some mental problem, he is always a step behind. In matters of the heart, however, he is always more than several lengths ahead of me; a reversal that causes me no little discomfort at times.

I felt his bandaged hand upon my shoulder – cautiously and with flinching at first due to the pain, and then tighter as he steeled himself against what had to be excruciating agony and gripped it warmly.

"I'm sorry," I heard his miserable whisper. "It was a foolish thing to do."

"Very much so," I replied unsteadily.

"The boy was sick –"

"He had a common stomachache from overindulgence, Watson," I snapped with more vehemence than I had intended. "I do not care if he were to have smallpox, don't you _ever_ do something that absolutely unintelligent again, do you understand me?"

I felt rather than heard the hasty nod, and his hand left my shoulder as he slumped back against the wall. I took a deep breath and left the images of what could have been buried with all the other ghosts of the past I whose resurrections I had been battling this case, turning my attention to the matter at hand; before he grew tired again I needed to get some answers.

"Watson, can you tell me what happened last night after you left the boy?" I asked quietly. "Can you remember?"

He nodded, his face growing tense as he tried to recall the details that he knew I would want to hear. I listened with mounting interest (and horrified anger at this unknown rider) to the tale. I was going to shoot that horseman if I got the opportunity in this case, I swore it by all I held sacred.

I must not have been as good at hiding my feelings as I normally am, for he took a look at my face and smiled a bit fondly at me.

"Holmes, he may not have even known what he was doing – for all he knew, I was just some person in a dark woods who was shooting at him. It was not an attack against me personally; he had no way of knowing whom he was leading into that trap."

"Do you not see, Watson," I said earnestly, "that that very fact alone shows him to be more ruthless than I had anticipated? You could have been killed…blinded…or worse, paralysed – and he would do that to a total stranger in the forest?"

His pale face turned even whiter, but we had no time for petty feelings. "Watson, can you remember any more details about the man, something that would help us discover his identity?"

He rubbed his temples, frowning at the effort of thinking and then giving a stifled gasp as he touched the bruise on his forehead. I reached out in concern but he waved me away, pinching the bridge of his nose in deep thought. Then suddenly his head shot up excitedly.

"I do remember, Holmes. The oddest thing – he wore only a thin jacket, not a coat," he exclaimed.

I blinked. No overcoat? Of course that would only detract from the grotesque costume, but no man could withstand such cold for long…for long…of course!

"Watson, that means he had to have been here in this lodge," I said suddenly, the realisation illuminating the fact like lightning on a dark landscape. "He was here…and because he was not wearing a heavy coat he intended to come back momentarily."

"But why leave the lodge at all in that case?" Watson asked slowly, processing this fact with a frown.

"Because," I went on, my voice becoming serious, "he had to have found out that you were on your way to inspect the lodges. He found out, and knowing that you would discover where he had been keeping his horse, he came out with the sole purpose of either frightening you off or eliminating your interference."

"And he succeeded in the one but not the other," my friend muttered wearily.

"Watson, whom did you tell you were going out to investigate these outbuildings?" I demanded, my brain spinning with ideas and theories about this mysterious rider. And oh, how I wanted nothing more than to get my hands on the blackguard for what he had done…

I was snapped out of my pleasant daydream involving garroting the horseman with his own mask by Watson's voice. "Only Meyer – that's the groom that went with us – and Mueller and Lehmann, I told them we'd be back later and we'd be cold when we did, to have a hot bath waiting for Alfie and so on..."

I felt the blood drain from my face at the sudden thought of Alfie riding back with one person who had become a suspect in this drama, and at the same instant Watson's pain-filled hazel eyes came to life and he shot upright with a small gasp.

"You don't think that Meyer –" he whispered shakily.

I shook my head, hoping I was correct in what I was about to say. "Somehow I doubt it, Watson. Meyer has not the resources nor the fortitude to pull off such elaborate plots; and besides I doubt he has a serious motive. Have no fear for the child's safety, he looked fine before I left the castle."

My friend's face untensed slightly. He gave a moaning sigh and shifted uneasily in his position, his various injuries no doubt paining him a good deal though he of course said nothing. I was about to ask him to lie down for a while when I thought I heard noises outside the lodge.

From the inquisitiveness in Watson's eyes, he had heard the sounds as well, and I scrambled to my feet and went to the window. The morning sun was glinting off the fresh snowfall, making it look pure and warm; a far contrast from the despair and gloom of the previous night.

And tromping steadily through it up the narrow path I saw a straggling sort of caravan, with the Count and our little Irregular at its head.

I turned round, my face wreathed in a smile, intending to tell Watson that the cavalry was here…only to see his head bent over his drawn-up knees, his swollen and chapped hands clenched into as tight of fists as they were able to do in their pitiful state and shaking far too badly to just be shivering. He was not as well as he was pretending to be.

I determined that once we got back to the castle he would go right straight to bed and I would brook no argument over the matter. For now, I crouched beside him and put a hand gently on his shoulder. He jumped, startled, but quickly hid his pain and told me he was perfectly fine.

I have always maintained that he is a simply horrible liar, and I reminded him of that fact, receiving a scowl for my trouble. I grinned and, after wrapping the blankets tighter round his shoulders, I went to the door and opened it, waving my arms at the riders now dismounting in front of the lodge.

I saw the Count raise a hand in greeting, and before the relief on the nobleman's face had even fully been registered by my optic nerve a ginger-haired missile exploded out of the snow and knocked me back inside the small cabin, arms wrapped round my legs and nearly tripping me in the process of staggering backward.

I stopped a feverishly frantic flow of Cockney and tears by finally clapping a hand over the lad's out-of-control mouth, turning his little head to see Watson sitting against the wall by the fire…pale and wan, but very much alive.

Another man might have felt resentment in the way the lad promptly dropped his affections toward me and bolted for my friend…but my own reaction to seeing him alive had been no less exuberant and near hysterical, if I wished to be brutally honest with myself.

Watson's smile suddenly slipped into a noiseless wince of deep-seated pain as Alfie threw his arms round my friend's neck and sobbed into his bad shoulder. I started for them, intending to pull the lad off him, but my friend shook his head at me, his face softening despite the pain. He patted Alfie's back gently as the boy cried and stammered out something about it being all his fault for eating so much cake, etc., etc. Even I felt sorry for him; he had to have spent a horrid night worrying about both of us.

I turned from the touching sight to see the Count and a few of his staff trailing in at a more sedate pace.

"Herr Holmes, I am gratified to see you alive," the nobleman said at once, extending a hand in greeting. "And the doctor?"

"Alive and mostly well," I said, gesturing to my friend who was still comforting our small companion.

"Your mount came back to the stables last night half-frozen, Mr. Holmes. What of the Doctor's horse?"

I was slightly annoyed at the callous dismissal of our wellbeing in favour of a couple of horses, though obviously the man prized his animals highly. I was saved from having to fetch round for a tactful way to put the matter by my friend, who spoke from his position on the floor.

"I am sorry about the mare, Count," my friend said weakly. "Neither the horse nor I saw the ditch until the horseman had led us into that trap."

The Count's eyes darkened and gleamed for a moment, during which I nearly bit my tongue in two to prevent my saying something to make the situation more strained.

"Horseman? You saw the horseman?" he asked, for we had told him of our earlier sighting of the equine apparition before.

I told the count of Watson's encounter, giving my friend a moment to gather himself and to calm Alfie, who would not leave his side and kept one hand clenched on my friend's trousers. The Count's brows rose as he listened to the account and he looked at my friend with surprise and a gleam of what I might have called caution, if not respect.

"I am not at all happy about this, Doctor," the man said finally.

Watson and I both were about to respond when the nobleman held up a hand to stop us.

"However," he went on more soberly, "no matter how valuable an animal is, even my prized horses are not comparable to the value of a human life. I am very glad you did not meet the same fate, Doctor; and though your actions were not very wise, I must commend you on the courage you showed in attempting to apprehend the culprit. You are either very brave or very foolhardy."

"Often he is both," I said, grinning at Watson, who scowled back at me.

"I could say the same of you, Herr Holmes," the Count said. "Your rescue was no less dangerous. It is lucky that we find you both alive, and I feel we should not press that luck." He motioned a few of his men forward, barking several curt orders in German.

"I have brought horses; we will return to Weissberg Castle as soon as possible."

Within five minutes the men had the fire put out, inventory of what I had used taken, and between Alfie's and my efforts we had gotten Watson back into his overcoat, boots and scarf. Alfie tugged his own cap over my friend's head, and we all had a badly-needed laugh when the too-small article suddenly popped off, leaving his hair mussed and askew. Alfie grinned and donned the cap instead while I handed Watson his gloves.

I grew a bit worried when he could not get them on the first time he tried to – his hands had already swollen that much. But we could never allow them to be exposed to the cold air of the outdoors, for that was too dangerous in the frostbite healing process.

My dear friend tried, bless him – he did attempt to fit his hands in the gloves but had to give up, clenching his jaw to keep from showing pain in front of Alfie and me. I frowned, and the lad pulled off his mittens and offered them to us with a quizzical glance. Unfortunately they were also too small.

It was the Count who provided the solution, and for once in the time that I knew him I felt grateful to the man; he had not come unprepared, being used to such occurrences. He cast an appraising eye over my friend, lingering on the state of his hands, and gave another order to one of his men.

The gentleman came forward with dry outer clothing; not only thick mittens, but also a fur cap, a woolen muffler, and a thick overcoat to replace Watson's, which was still too damp to wear comfortably.

When my friend was wrapped sufficiently, the Count turned and ordered his men to ready the horses. I turned to Watson.

"Are you all right?"

He was pale, and his face was drawn with the excruciating pain he was no doubt feeling from his shoulder and hands, but, ever stalwart and stubborn, he nodded.

"Fine, Holmes," he said.

I smiled grimly. "On your feet then, old fellow." I put my arm under his shoulders and he placed his own around mine, and I pulled him to his feet where he swayed slightly, wincing at the movement of the stiff muscles.

"Can you ride, Herr Doktor?" The Count, asked glancing back at the two of us.

Watson opened his mouth to answer but hesitated, eyeing the strong, thick-coated horses that stood outside in the yard.

Of course, the realization struck me as it should have done a while ago. Watson was an excellent horseman…but even he would be nervous after such an accident.

"Never mind, Watson," I said. "You'll ride with me; your hands aren't ready to be gripping reins right now anyway."

The Count nodded as my friend gave me a relieved, if somewhat shamed, smile.

"You will ride my own gelding; he is strong enough for you both."

"Thank you, Count," I said, and he inclined his head slightly, leading the way outside.

Alfie left Watson's side with reluctance, climbing on his smaller horse, but his bright green eyes never left my friend for a moment.

The Count brought his great black gelding around and I helped Watson to it, for though he kept his feet he was remarkably unsteady. With only a margin of hesitation he reached up and tried to grip the saddle horn in a mount, but no sooner had he taken his weight on his hands then he fell back onto me with a gasp and a severe grimace.

"Watson?" I asked anxiously.

"I'm fine," Watson grunted, his eyes closed and his face still in a grimace. "I just…forgot." He glanced up at the great height of the horse and swallowed, and I knew that there was more to it than that. I sighed and put a hand on his arm.

"Nothing will happen, Watson, I give you my word of honour...I will not _allow_ anything else to happen to you."

Whether it was my words or the thinly veiled anger and worry in my tone (I no longer cared about hiding how badly this affair had shaken me) I did not know, but evidently one of them was what he wanted or needed to hear; for he swallowed hard and nodded, allowing me to boost him onto the beast where he wavered but kept his seat, too exhausted to care even what the Count's men thought of his supposed weakness. I hastily pulled myself up and positioned myself behind him, so that I could hold the reins and help keep him upright.

The Count waited until I nodded to him, then turned his own horse and led the way out of the clearing down the narrow path.

Watson made absolutely no sound during the hour-long ride back, either from exhaustion or from trying to get his nerves back under control…and the silence began to worry me more than if he had been complaining (not that he ever would) about the pain I knew he had to be in.

After three quarters of an hour, Watson was shivering violently again and would have been slumped over the saddle had I not had a tight hold on him. Alfie was shooting me frightened glances every few minutes over my friend's bowed head, and I was growing worried…perhaps we should not have moved him so quickly, but to stay in that primitive lodge was not the best thing for his condition either…

I tightened my grip on him as he slumped backwards this time against me, his shallow breathing sending tiny puffs of ice crystals into the morning air. He answered my worried inquiry with a nod and a rather sickly ghost of a smile that did more to frighten me than if he had told the truth about how he was feeling.

Once we had reached the castle, I saw Mueller waiting for us by the entryway. We pulled up and I had hit the ground before our horse had stopped; and only just in time, for Watson more slid than stepped down off the beast and then promptly collapsed into my arms without a sound.

My startled cry was matched by Alfie's as the boy jumped down after us, his little eyes wide with fright.

"Mr. 'Olmes, wha'-"

"It's all right, Alfie," I grunted, staggering under Watson's dead weight and trying to keep him from slipping down into the snow.

Mueller hurried forward to help me as the Count dismounted and shouted to Schulz to take the horses back to the stables.

"I've been a fool," I said with more remorse than I had felt in quite some time, "I should have waited to bring him back, it was too much too quickly, and in this cold – " Hypothermia victims were supposed to rest for quite a long time before attempting movement, and here I had insisted he come back to the Castle; though there was not really any alternative…

"Herr Holmes, those lodges are definitely not equipped to take care of such things," Mueller's stolidly calm voice, speaking in clear English, did much to slow my racing nerves and neutralise the acidic worry that was eating away at my insides. "He will be fine, sir, with rest and care. _Junge_, the door if you please."

"Shall I send Keller to town for a doctor?" the Count called after me and the elderly butler as we carried my friend inside.

"I don't think that's necessary, sir, if I might venture an opinion," Mueller said calmly, glancing at me for permission, "we have had experience with such things before."

I nodded, for I had as well. I suspected pain and exhaustion to be the root of this rather than some serious medical condition. Besides, Watson was the worst possible patient I had ever seen in all my years as a detective. We shared a common hatred of doctors; the only difference being that I made one exception to that rule – he made none.

Alfie closed the door behind us and ran ahead to get Watson's bedroom door open. As I laid his shoulders on the bed, careful not to let his head loll around, he moaned faintly and began to stir once again.

"Easy, Watson, it's all right," I murmured as I arranged the blankets round him and Alfie hovered nervously at my elbow. My friend moved his head slightly and then lay still once more after a small sigh.

Mueller disappeared, informing me that he would get some warm water and clean gauze so that we might keep Watson's hands covered and bandaged, and also bring up a pot of coffee for me with some of the pastries from breakfast.

"What 'appened las' night, Mr. 'Olmes?" Alfie's frightened whisper broke the silence as I stoked up the fire and pulled a chair up beside Watson's bed.

I detailed to the boy the events Watson had told me about the horseman, his pursuit, and glossed swiftly over the details of his narrow escape. The lad's eyes grew round and wide as I did, and he looked absolutely scared to death.

"He's all right, Alfie," I finally said, as gently as I could manage through the worry that threatened to cloud my reason once again.

"Yew sure, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"Quite sure." I nearly spat the words out, as if emphasizing them would make them more true. "Now did you find out anything whilst I was gone last night, Alfie?"

"Not 'bout the people 'ere in th' castle, Mr. 'Olmes," the lad said a bit despondently.

"Ah, no matter," I replied absently, my focus mainly upon watching Watson's face for signs of distress…but he appeared to be peaceful enough.

"But oi did find out somefin' importan', oi think," the lad went on slowly, a slow grin starting to blossom over his face as he turned it to mine.

"You did?" I turned my attention directly upon the lad with some eagerness. He was a sharp boy, and hopefully this would be a clue of some importance!

"Th' ghost lady showed up 'gain las' night, Mr. 'Olmes," the lad whispered conspiratorially, leaning closer to me and glancing about as if to see the spectre there in the room.

"The bride?"

"Sure did, Mr. 'Olmes. Roight 'ere i' this 'allway, it did," the lad nodded solemnly.

"Did you follow her?" I demanded.

"Yew bet. But…oi didn' catch 'er, she went down an 'allway an' then another, an' oi lost 'er there," Alfie said sadly. Then he brightened considerably.

"But she lef' somethin' behind, Mr. 'Olmes! Oi've got a clue 'bout the lady ghost!"


	30. Too Many Ghosts

_His claim to his home is deep, but there are too many __ghosts__. He must absorb without being absorbed._

_- Willie Morris_

* * *

**_Holmes_**

My concern for my friend momentarily fled my mind in the face of this new development. I looked down into the lad's excited green eyes and fairly frightened the child with my demanding to know what this clue was. I barely registered Mueller entering with a pot of coffee, setting it down, and taking my and Watson's soaked outerwear with him to dry them, so intent was I on Alfie's new evidence.

For answer, the boy reached into a stained pocket – he had put the same trousers on without Watson to make sure he changed, blast it – and yanked out a small scrap of white cloth.

"This was caught on a bookcase, this was," the lad said excitedly, pushing the scrap of cloth toward me with a small wriggle. "Musta come off 'er dress, wot?"

I snatched the fabric and held it under the soft gaslight. Roughly three inches long, and jaggedly torn – been caught on a splinter in all probability. Fine white satin that bespoke of quality, and the type of fabric found on wedding gowns (I thought, anyway; heaven knew I was no expert in the field).

"Where did you get this, Alfie?" I asked, pulling out my lens and hoping to find a hair or something else upon the fabric that would give me a further clue.

"'Member tha' 'allway where the Doctor got shut up i' tha' passage?"

"Yes, go on."

"Well, 'twas roight before we got there, oi saw the dress get caught on th' bookcase, see, an' she just went _yip_ and kep' goin'. Oi followed 'er, but she give me the slip," the lad said a bit sadly, linking his fingers together and fidgeting with them. "Oi picked up th' stuff on th' way back through."

"Well done, my boy!" I said heartily, turning the fabric over once more. There were no other data, unfortunately, but it was something at least. A tangible fabric bespoke of a quite tangible ghost – this would reassure the Lady Cecilia if nothing else.

I was not quite certain whether to tack off on the horseman angle or the bridal ghost in this affair...reason told me that they were connected, but somehow I had the oddest intuition that they were separate entities entirely, and though connected in some way with the case were not connected to each other in actual association.

I hastily set the fabric down when Watson stirred uneasily, murmuring something and moving his head on the pillow slightly. I bent over him and patted his uninjured shoulder gently.

"Watson. Can you hear me, old chap?"

I was rewarded when his eyelashes fluttered and finally his eyes opened wearily, looking about in some confusion before coming back to rest on my face. Then his dead-pale face flushed with a bit of colour as he realised he had lost consciousness upon dismounting. His cursed pride was almost amusing, and I smiled at it.

"It's all right, my dear fellow," I said softly. "We should not have moved you so soon, and for that lapse in judgment I beg your forgiveness."

He smiled weakly. "I'd rather be here, ghosts and all."

His voice was weak, and full of pain, but the small grin he gave me was genuine as was the affectionate glance toward the worried lad sitting on his heels on the edge of the large bed, looking him over carefully.

"You didn't change your shirt, Alfie," he said in a tone that no doubt was supposed to be stern but really was not, considering its tiredness.

"Blimey, yew would notice tha'," the lad groused, scowling at my friend and sliding off the bed.

"Go and change," I directed sternly, not wanting Watson to exert himself over something so trivial.

Alfie stuck his tongue out at me, grinned at the Doctor and patted his hand, and then skipped out into the hallway, much more cheerful than he had been before, now that he could see that Watson would be all right.

"I want you to try to have some breakfast, Watson," I said firmly when the door had closed once more.

"I'm really not hungry, Holmes…" he replied weakly.

"You've not eaten since yesterday noon – and besides," I went on with a malicious streak, "I want you to know what it feels like to be hounded into eating when you're not hungry."

He laughed at that, a bit more colour returning to his face as I propped a few cushions behind his back and then went over to the table, returning with a scone.

"Well at least give me some coffee," he grumbled, enjoying my unusual solicitude far too much in my opinion.

I was doubtful of the wisdom of coffee when he really needed to rest, but I supposed he would be a better judge of his limits than I and so fixed him a cup diluted with a goodly amount of milk. He pulled a face, muttering that my coffee-mixing skills were no greater than my tea-making ones, but I was pleased to see him try to finish the cup and nibble half the scone before his eyes started to close again from exhaustion.

I took the cup from his fingers before he dropped it, his head nodding again, and set it down on the table. My poor friend was asleep before I had even returned to the bed, and so I very gingerly eased the pillows out from under him until he was in a reclining position once more. He never even moved, just sighed and unconsciously burrowed down into the blankets I tucked securely round him against the chill; the fire was only now starting to heat up the cold room.

I was glad that he could sleep, however, for I well knew his absolute aversion to any and all drugs and were he in need of laudanum or morphine I should have been in for an argument to top all arguments. Better that he should sleep for a while first, though in a few hours the pain might be bad enough that he should need something. I hopped over to his bag and dropped it beside the bed in preparation for any emergency; and then and only then did I collapse into my chair.

But no sooner had I taken my seat beside my comrade's bed when the door banged open and a far too hyperactive child rushed in. I jumped from the chair to catch the door before it slammed into the wall, hissing a warning to Alfie to be silent, and the lad gulped guiltily and looked over to Watson. He had not moved a muscle, for which I was grateful.

"Mr. 'Olmes, can't oi stay wit' yew for a while?" the boy whispered desperately, glancing over his shoulder. "If'n yew don' let me, tha' means oi 'ave ta spen' the day wit them ladies, an' oi 'ad enough o' that this mornin' ta last me a bleedin' lifetime!"

Though I should much rather have been alone with my thoughts, to leave a child to fend for himself against those monstrous noblewomen was a cruelty even I could not countenance. I shut the door, and the boy breathed a small sigh of relief.

"They was awful a' breakfas', Mr. 'Olmes," he informed me softly, glancing at Watson sleeping on the bed and lowering his voice to an even softer whisper. "Wanted ta know everythin' 'bout the ghost lady an' all that stuff. Bloomin' nosy, if yew ask me."

I had to chuckle at the boy's vehemence against the Count's fiancée and his overbearing cousin. I was shocked that the Lady Claudia had not come bustling in by now, demanding particulars about Watson's accident.

I hoped the Count had had enough sense to keep everyone away from this room for a while. For one thing, my friend needed the rest. For another, I still suspected someone in this castle was either behind these apparitions or was doing the performances himself (or herself). And no one was going to touch Watson again, not while I was still breathing.

* * *

For the better part of the morning Watson slept peacefully, and I passed the time in a rather juvenile manner in teaching Alfie how to play chess…though the boy was rather too impatient to ever become a decent player he still picked up the idea of the game far more rapidly than I had expected.

Four hours, three upset boards, and fifteen games later, I sent the lad off with Mueller for luncheon and then a nap, accepting the man's offer of a tray to be sent up as I was not going anywhere for a long while yet.

I was checking the scrapes on Watson's head for signs of infection (thankfully there were none) when there was a soft knock on the door. I put away the iodine and opened it, to reveal the Lady Cecilia herself, bearing a tray of sandwiches and tea which I hastily took from her.

"Mueller is taking your little one out to play, Herr Holmes," she said softly and (my tired brain was rather glad) in English, glancing at the sleeping figure on the bed. "It is not good for children to be kept imprisoned inside for so long a time. I told him to take the _Kind_ and I would bring you your luncheon."

I sighed gratefully, glad that the boy would be out of my hair for a while at least…I must remember to thank Mueller later.

"_Danke_, Lady Cecilia. I appreciate both the meal and your caring for the boy while I was gone. He can be rather a handful at times," I said with a smile.

She laughed lightly. "All _Kinder_ can be, Herr Holmes. How is the Doktor?"

"Sleeping for now," I replied quietly. "His injuries were far less serious than they so easily could have been."

"I feel very responsible for all this, Herr Holmes," the lady said sadly, looking at me with a clear gaze that bespoke of deep feeling. "Had I not begged Heinrich to send for you none of this would have happened to you or to your friends."

I shook my head. "We are accustomed to dangerous cases, Lady Cecilia. Yours is no different, and nothing you could do would have changed matters at any rate."

I saw some rapid indecision flit across her perfectly chiseled features before it faded just as quickly.

"My lady, is there anything you wish to tell me?" I inquired pointedly…something about this just did not sit right with me.

"_Nein_, Herr Holmes, not at all," she replied quickly. Far too quickly.

"I believe you are hiding something from me, Lady Cecilia," I said with as much patient gentleness as I could muster.

The woman's eyes flashed with either fear or anger – the two were so closely related I could not tell them apart – before she shook her head and put her hand on the doorknob.

"There is nothing, Herr Holmes. I am just regretful that you and your friends have been hurt on my account," she whispered, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her gently.

I frowned, glancing back at Watson's sleeping form and wishing I could hear his opinions about the woman…it was most certainly his department and not mine. I absently poured myself a cup of tea and bit down on the closest sandwich, trying to perform a rapid summary of the known facts we had thus far.

I was certain that one or more than one of the household were involved, for from Watson's description of the Horseman and what we both had seen of the lady ghost they could not possibly be the same person.

And then there was the incident in which Haight and Alfie had been secured in the cellar nearly simultaneously to when Watson and I had found ourselves stranded in the tower room upstairs; both were a considerable distance away from each other, surely a two-man job at least, unless the one man were extremely active and quick-thinking.

I shuddered also with the memory of it, so close, for both of the youngest members of our group, not only frightened but in danger of suffocation and hypothermia in the small, cold room…and that had not been the only attack.

I could not forget our having first arrived and Watson being pushed onto a track…_pushed,_ mind, for there was no chance that it could be a coincidence now. Locomotives were extremely dangerous, and it was a miracle that my friend had escaped with his life, let alone all of him intact; the individual who had shoved him could not have been intending him to remain unhurt.

And then there was Lachlan's own accident, a coincidence bordering on the absurd when compared with Watson's. A cab was not as dangerous, but it was still quick to maim…and it was questionable that Lachlan's arm would ever be what it was, since this was not the first, or even the second time he had injured it in the last year.

These along with the hallucinogenic drug on the fire, the numerous appearances of the ghosts…and Watson's latest brush with death bore the mark of professionalism if improvisation. Our opponent may not have this planned out step by step, but every move he had made thus far had been carefully calculated to cause not only physical harm, but fear as well, constructed specially to unnerve us.

To unnerve _me_…for even as I went through the list of grievances in my mind I could not help but realize that even though I had also put myself into compromising situations…I had not been touched.

I had been drugged, but that could hardly be considered life-threatening as there were no supposed after-effects. No…I had not been harmed in any way physically, but my friends had…every one of them, threatened without scruple…and I had either failed miserably in protecting them…or I had been only just in time to help prevent disaster.

From the first with Watson's fall at the station, I had been in fear of my friends' lives, and with every incident following it my attention had been diverted, all my caution and logical deduction thrown to the wind as I struggled to pick up the pieces of the disasters that I had been too late to divert, like a firefighter with far too many blazes going at once.

I had been successfully and thoroughly distracted, and for all my efforts to the contrary had very few clues to show for it.

The scrap of cloth from Alfie, and several encounters, all we truly knew of the villains were that they had an intimate knowledge of the castle, connections with the staff, access to a horse in the vicinity, a basic knowledge of science for the special effects, and an excellent turn for misdirection.

I had yet even to determine the motive. Revenge seemed a little farfetched, especially considering that the attacks had been directed toward the investigators rather than the Count or his family.

In fact, his original reason for calling us down here in the first place, because this ghost was supposedly plaguing Lady Cecilia, was becoming more and more of an unlikely cause.

I finished most of the sandwich and realized that I had been grinding my teeth for several moments now, so I set down what was left on the table and reached for the teapot, pouring myself another cup.

If the purpose of this ghost was simply to scare off Lady Cecilia then why had their efforts been directed at us and not at the lady? Surely a tenacious string of haunting would have had the desired effect.

Was it perhaps because we had arrived? The ghost of the horseman had only appeared after our arrival…perhaps it was the villain's plan to scare us off and then turn his attentions toward Cecilia once again once we had gone.

But then why the violent attacks? Surely they knew that that would only make me all the more determined to seek them out and reveal their identity.

I finished the second cup of tea and got to my feet in agitation to pace before the fire.

It had been a mistake to take on this case in the first place; it had rung foul from the first, and my patience with the Count and this entire situation was running extremely thin.

Not that I was one to give up a case lightly, but this case was a serious one indeed, and surely the lives of my companions were more important than preserving Lady Cecilia's nerves, which personally, I thought were already half-shot.

I could not drive from my mind the images of Watson falling onto the tracks, his face rigid with terror, nor of Lachlan laying pale and lifeless on his bed, and most especially the haunting images that had been conjured up by the dreadful nightmares…ingraining themselves into my mind.

Surely it would be better to return to Baker Street, leaving the Count and the whole mad lot to sort it out among themselves, thereby putting us out of danger and drawing the danger away from Lachlan and Haight as well.

I stopped before the fire with a weary sigh, clutching the mantle with one hand and my very heavy head with the other.

It was frustratingly difficult to concentrate, to get any thought past my muddled mind…did I honestly mean to back out of a case out of fear?

Is that why they were playing this sadistic game? To drive the great Sherlock Holmes cringing to the hole from which he crept?

My anger bristled within me and rose to unbearable height, so that I could not stay and turned away from the fireplace to kick at the small table that held the coffee pot left by Mueller earlier…now stone cold. Unfortunately my bout of temper caused this coffee pot to overturn and roll to the stone floor with a clatter.

I winced as the overly loud noise rang through the room, and I turned to see that as I had feared, it had jarred Watson from sleep.

He stirred, his face still pale, and peered with sleep-laden eyes about the dark room, more in puzzlement than fear.

His brows furrowed and pushing back the covers slightly he struggled to sit up.

"Holmes?" he whispered, his voice steadier and far smoother than the hoarse sound it had been earlier.

I crossed the room quickly, and put my hand on his uninjured shoulder.

"I'm here, Watson, forgive me for waking you."

He frowned up at me, no doubt able to read the agitation and anger in my face despite my efforts to school my expression; he always had been able to tell my thoughts more than anyone else.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" he asked softly, fixing me with that kindly discerning gaze of his eyes that I had always found particularly frustrating, for he usually used it when inquiring whether I had been eating or sleeping, or more often resorting to the cocaine bottle.

For once I found that I did not have the strength to try to sidestep the question, instead sighing and seating myself on the edge of his bed.

"No, Watson. I am infernally tired of this entire affair." I rubbed one hand over my face, feeling unusually weary for one of my late-night sessions of ratiocination, I could hardly keep my eyes open. That was rather odd, and not a little irritating.

I straightened with another frustrated growl. "I have no tangible facts to consider, and all my efforts have done is brought grief onto you and the others…I cannot help but think that perhaps…"

I raised my head to look at him where he lay propped up against the pillows, his eyes alert and sharp with concern, listening patiently to my every word.

"Perhaps I am losing my mind, Watson…not in total…but…perhaps I have become redundant in this profession…not a few years ago I declared Moriarty to be the peak of my career and I was more than content to end it there."

I paused, waiting, almost hoping for a verdict from him…and when none came I spurted out in frustration, demanding his answer.

"Was I right, Watson?!"

My friend observed me for another moment, then closed his eyes wearily. I felt my heart drop slightly…did he too agree with that depressing thought that had entered my mind? Was my return to life and active practice all a mistake? Had I changed so much in the interim that now I would gladly give up a case over an emotional disturbance? Surely I never would have done so in bygone years.

The moment passed, however, and I felt my heart lighten just as quickly when Watson shook his head slowly and opened his eyes again, fixing me with a gaze of amusement and kindliness and most of all…trust. The cool, confident trust that I could associate only with him, the one that allowed him to obey my every word without question, and to follow me without hesitation into the dankest, most dangerous rat-holes that this world had to offer.

"Rubbish, Holmes," he said, smiling, causing my heart to warm further. "It's this blasted case and this dreadful castle; they're wearing on your nerves, you are exhausted, and for once it is not your fault. And if you are having trouble concentrating I am always here to be used as a sounding board…now…have you gone over the motives?"

I returned the smile, briefly, before frowning in thought once again. "Thank you, my dear Watson…but why the motive in particular?"

Watson straightened a little.

"Well, you came to the conclusion not long ago that the motive for the attacks was a great amount of misdirection, but you have yet to answer the reason behind all this effort…what secret the man is trying to hide."

I sighed and shook my head. "If you could help me answer that, Watson, than I would be eternally grateful to you. But I will not keep you from your rest."

It was a testament of how very tired my friend was that he did not argue, and after nodding he turned over, burrowing under the covers once again and almost at once his breathing regulated and he was asleep.

I watched him for a few moments, to make certain that all was well and to remind myself of that fact…and I was only startled out of this reverie when my head began to slip from my hand, feeling heavier than ever.

Really I was unusually tired, and I lost no time in drinking another cup of tea (now cold), getting to my feet, and striding about a bit, tossing one or two more logs of wood onto the fire to warm the room further for Watson.

I paced again, running Watson's very astute question through my own mind, for that really was the question…was it not? Not _whom,_ for we could not discern a reason for that yet…but _why_…why go to all this effort to rid the Count of the girl.

It could not be because of a changing of the will, for even if Cecilia did marry then the amounts inherited by the others would hardly be altered. And though the sums of money were quite enormous, the amount they would lose by the marriage was really not enough of a difference to kill for…was it?

For propriety perhaps? If so, they had gone an to an enormous amount of effort just for the sake of principle…and they had sacrificed a great many other principles to do so.

I stumbled slightly right before the fire and thought it best to sit down before I fell head-first into the flames.

Really, I thought, seating myself at the table beside Watson's bed, I did not understand why I found it so difficult to concentrate…or why my limbs and my head felt weighed more heavily with each passing minute.

Perhaps the great amount of cold and the ordeal of retrieving Watson from the storm had drained me more than I had thought. Yes, that must be it…emotional disturbances had always been far more draining to my mind and body than any amount of work could be. That was why I was so drowsy despite the coffee and tea.

Perhaps a rest…just a short one, mind, just to cool my head and clear my thoughts. I obviously was not getting far in this train of thought with my mind in a muddle anyhow…

I laid my head onto the very inviting wood of Watson's table, taking in the scents of the oil used to polish it, of the burning logs on the fire…listening to my friend's steady breathing…and feeling some sense of contentment, or at least uncaring if I fell asleep or not now.

My eyes grew heavier, and with less reluctance then usual I acquiesced to close them…Just for a moment...just a moment…


	31. Suspicion Always Haunts

_Suspicion always __haunts__ the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer._

_William Shakespeare (1564–1616)_

* * *

_**Watson**_

My awakening was painful and abrupt when I unconsciously rolled over in my sleep…right onto my bad shoulder. The ensuing agonising jolt caused a short breathless cry to escape my lips before I opened my eyes to the late afternoon sun streaming through my window, giving the illusion of warmth though the fire was dying slowly into glowing embers.

The throbbing in my head had subsided finally, but my shoulder ached and my hands burned under the bandaging whenever I so much as moved a finger, so swollen were they from the frostbite.

Perhaps I should get a light pain reliever…if Holmes wanted to discuss theories with me I should need to be not merely awake but also able to concentrate, which was rather difficult at the moment. I sat up slowly, hoping not to feel that familiar weakness, and was rewarded for my pains with only a mild sense of vertigo which passed momentarily.

Wait, Holmes…where was he? I rubbed my eyes clear and looked round. He was slumped, more like sprawled, actually, onto the table beside my bed. He must have been tired indeed , for he slept very, very lightly as a rule and he was now breathing so heavily that even when I called his name a few times he did not answer me or even move.

If he were that tired, I should not awaken him. I carefully swung my legs over the side of the bed and put my slippers on against the chill, leaning down to retrieve my bag which he had left sitting beside him on the floor.

The sudden sharp pain that shot through my hands as I rather foolishly snatched at the handle caused me to drop the bag with a loud clatter as the glass phials inside rattled together…but thankfully did not break.

Holmes never moved a muscle, and I frowned. I truly did need to get the stupid bag opened, but I would not wake him up over something as trivial as that.

My word, he was sleeping heavily…far more heavily than I had seen him in quite some time. His breathing was so slow and deep it was almost laboured, and…

A sudden thought flashed through my mind…it was _too_ laboured; he rarely slept that deeply, and certainly never during a night's vigil at my bedside. I staggered to my feet, steadied myself against the wall for a moment, and then shook his shoulder firmly.

No response whatsoever, not even a small movement. Gulping down the unease that was crawling up my spine, I reached for his wrist and timed his pulse after fumbling a bit to feel through painful fingers.

Far too slow – he'd been drugged!

But why? Not to get to me, for I felt better now than I had for many hours. Not to hurt him, for I could see no signs of injury or illness and he was certainly not hallucinating as he had been before.

But this was no time for deduction and I shoved those thoughts firmly away, that was Holmes's department. For now, I had to get him awake in case there were side effects of whatever he had been dosed with.

"Holmes. Holmes, wake up," I demanded persistently close to his ear, my voice sharp with worry.

He never moved nor made a sound, and I pulled him back so that he was slumped against the back of his chair and not the table. Then I gently slapped his face a few times, nearly shouting at him to wake up and finally resorting to sprinkling the contents of a glass of water over his face as I could not seem to get my bag open to reach my smelling salts.

When he did not respond to that I finally gritted my teeth and worked on the bag's catch with my swollen fingers, biting my lip to keep from crying out at the pain. Finally I fumbled the catch open, retrieved the spirits of ammonia from its resting place, and waved it back and forth under his nose. This time, the detective responded sluggishly, moving his head with a small sigh and a low moan.

I breathed a sigh of my own…of pure relief. For a moment I had been worried that perhaps the drug had been administered too heavily and there would be nasty side effects.

As it was, ten minutes, a good bit of cajoling, and a bit of brandy later, Holmes was again slumped over the table but this time moaning and rubbing his head instead of that deathly stillness that had frightened me when I first discovered its cause.

"My word, Watson…what on earth…?" he asked weakly.

I settled on a chair beside him. "Look up at the light, Holmes."

"Wha…?"

"Holmes, come on."

He groggily obeyed, and I checked his eyes before taking his pulse again.

"Your pupils are responding to light, thank heaven, and your pulse is up," I said with relief, leaning back in my chair and carefully placing my painful hands on the table out of harm's way. "No lasting side effects then. Probably just common sleeping pills."

Holmes moaned and slumped back over the table.

"How are you feeling, old fellow?" I asked sympathetically.

"Watson, do you remember the first time we went to the theatre after my return last spring?" he asked, his voice muffled in his sleeve.

"The one where we went to dinner afterwards and…"

"And as our Midshipman would put it, came out of the restaurant a sheet or two to the wind?"

"More like three, Holmes, surely."

"Whatever," he moaned in a muffled whimper. "This is ten times worse than the next morning was."

I tried not to laugh and succeeded, but I could not keep the smile out of my tone for he really sounded like a whining child.

"I assume you did not sedate yourself, Holmes."

"My dear Watson, you are bloody _brilliant_."

I sighed, for when he was not feeling well he could be a veritable pill. Though to his credit, that had to have been a rather good dosage of sleeping powder to overcome _his_ iron will.

"Holmes, why don't you lie down for a while," I said softly.

"You should be taking your own advice, Doctor," he muttered into the tabletop, but when I tugged on his arm he only resisted for a moment before collapsing on the bed with a groan, squeezing his forehead with one thin hand.

"Ohh," he moaned at last, blinking rapidly as if to clear his mind and then looking back at me. "What…what on earth happened, Watson?

"Obviously someone drugged you, Holmes," I said soberly. "What did you eat that I didn't?"

"A pot of tea and a sandwich," he muttered through clenched teeth. "But I tasted nothing amiss…_Drugged!_"

His eyes, bleary as they were, focused on me for a moment and he snapped anxiously. "You aren't hurt Watson…nothing occurred that…?"

I hastened to reassure him and he closed his eyes again in relief, the action accompanied by another light moan.

"If it was just a common sleeping aid, as it seems to be, then most of those are or can be relatively tasteless," I told him, "probably just some sleeping pills in the tea or the milk…did you have milk?"

He nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a grimace and then shaking his head from side to side as if to settle his thoughts back into logical place. His eyes sharpened slightly and he frowned, looking at the tray.

"Well, I had coffee as well…you only had a half-cup of it and you fell asleep immediately," he said slowly, "I drank quite a bit of it after that. So any of it could have housed this infernal drug. Wonderful."

"Why the deuce would someone want to drug you, Holmes…" I trailed off, a thought suddenly springing into my mind. I jerked my head round to look at my friend.

"The last time they put us out of commission for a while, something happened to Haight and Alfie," I gasped, jumping to my feet. I must have moved too quickly, for a sudden dizzy spell hit me and Holmes scrambled off the bed to grab my arm as I staggered a step, unable to see straight.

He pushed me back into my chair without another word and then dashed for the corridor, still moaning and rubbing his head. Within five minutes he returned, a look of relief on his face.

"He's in his room, scribbling pictures of ghosts all over one of your empty notebooks," he said with a small grin.

Pure relief flooded through my veins, and I sat back with a sigh. "Thank heaven. Why then did they drug you, Holmes?"

My friend collapsed on the bed on his stomach, his head in his hand.

"How in the world did I fall for that?" he moaned dismally. "Someone slipping Sherlock Holmes a sleeping pill; present company excluded of course, you have far too ready access to my meals. If the Yard ever hears about this I'll never live it down!"

I refrained from rolling my eyes at his absolute arrogance. "Holmes. Concentrate, it will help clear your head. Why would someone want to drug you? What reason could they have? And how was it done?"

"One question at a time, for the love of heaven, Watson!"

"Very well," I replied patiently, rubbing my own head gingerly as his petulance was growing slightly irksome. "How was it done? The breakfast or the luncheon? And if so, who is responsible?"

Holmes glanced up thoughtfully. "If the coffee and/or scones, Mueller brought that in. Lady Cecilia brought the tea-tray in, by Mueller's orders."

I found it hard to believe that the kindly butler would have a motive to put my friend under for a few hours…but neither did the Lady, when things came down to it. Why should either of them do such a thing?

I said as much to Holmes, but I saw that his eyes had suddenly contracted and lightened into steely pinpoints – his senses were returning finally. I had only a moment to wait before he jumped off the bed and scrambled over to the table, searching for something.

"Holmes, what –"

He dashed back over to the bedside table and searched under the books and such that littered it, finally slamming the topmost one down with a snarl of disappointment.

"What the devil are you so irritated about?" I demanded.

"The cloth, Watson!"

I blinked. "What cloth?"

He sighed and dropped back into the nearest chair with a dark scowl. "I've forgotten, you were asleep. Alfie chased the ghostly bride last night and her dress caught on a bookcase; he picked up the small piece of cloth and gave it to me this morning. I'd not had a chance to analyse it fully for clues yet or compare it to the samples of the Strauss fabrics I gathered in town…"

He gestured to the beside table. "And now it's missing. That's your motive, Watson. That blasted ghost took the only tangible clue I had for this affair!"

He moaned, rubbing his head, and stalked over to the half-eaten sandwich and teapot, sitting at the table and sniffing each in turn.

"I doubt it was the sandwich, as I only ate a half of one…the tea, I suppose, or the coffee of earlier, if it were a delayed reaction drug."

"How much did you drink of the tea?" I asked suddenly.

"Mm, three cups I believe…perhaps four. Why?"

I glanced up at him with something akin to horror. "If three cups was enough to knock you out, then if you'd drunk the whole pot you could have overdosed on the stuff, Holmes! That would have been highly dangerous!"

Holmes frowned. "Would that not be an enormous amount of sleeping pills, Watson?"

I considered. "A fair amount, yes. Rather odd for someone to have that much on hand, now that you mention it…"

"Mentally unstable," I heard Holmes murmur suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing, Watson. But about that tea…somehow I doubt the object was to cause me permanent harm; if so, there are far easier and more efficient ways of dealing the fatal blow than a sleeping pill overdose."

I did not appreciate his flippancy in speaking of such a thing, but I held my tongue on the point. "True. Then the intent was only to drug you…but still, Holmes, if you _had_ drunk the entire pot, you would be deathly ill right now."

"That is it, Watson!" he suddenly shouted, startling me to no end by shooting from his chair like an arrow from a string and fairly dancing about, clapping his hands suddenly with an abrupt glee.

"Holmes, don't be so infuriating! _What_ is it?" I cried, his infectious excitement filling me as well.

"The original intent of this person was not to actually cause me harm, Watson," he cried gleefully, "but if we were to tell the household that I had drunk the entire pot and in consequence was fighting off a sleeping pill overdose…"

The light suddenly broke over my own understanding. "And when the person responsible – Mueller or Lady Cecilia, or anyone else who could have drugged the stuff before it got here – hears that they could now be perpetrator of a potential murder instead of just a simple knockout…" I broke off with something of Holmes's own jubilation. "He will probably be frantic, as his intent was not to actually kill you!"

"And so make a mistake that will lead to our discovery of who is behind this, Watson!" he finished gaily, hopping up onto the bed and wriggling with suppressed excitement – finally, a lead we could take hold of and follow to the end.

"The coffee, or the tea, whichever it was," I offered, "if we leave the pots in here, then whoever drugged you will be sure to come back to remove the evidence after he finds out you've overdosed on the stuff!"

"Precisely, Watson!"

I marveled at the change in Holmes from a few hours before. When I had woken the second time, his frustration had been palpable, and his despair over his own abilities rather contagious. He had been ready to give up the entire case. Now…he was fairly bouncing with excitement, and I was scarce less enthused.

"Right then, Watson. Let me bandage your hands afresh, old fellow, and then I need you to start spreading the word that Sherlock Holmes is at death's door."

* * *

"You're going to have a deal of explaining to do to that child, Holmes," I whispered sadly into the darkness of the room.

I heard a sigh from the direction of the bed. "He could not know, Watson, you know that."

"Yes, I know," I sighed. "But he is worried sick about you, and it broke my heart to tell him he could not come in and see you a little while ago."

"He will be fine, Watson, so stop worrying and get your mind back into the present. We have work to do now, my dear fellow, and if we successfully carry this plot off we might very well crack this case tonight, at long last."

I sighed and settled back on the cold floor, hidden behind the sofa, and reached out to ensure that my revolver was still well within reach beside me. Not that I could hold the thing well at all with my swollen hands, but I would do what I had to if it came down to that.

We had been waiting in this room for five hours now after I had spread the word round the castle that Holmes had fallen desperately ill from what I diagnosed to be a sleeping pill overdose, administered through something he ate or drank. I had refused to allow anyone into the room, leaving the evidence intact upon our tables.

Surely our quarry would take the bait soon. I had made it clear that Holmes was very ill and not to be disturbed, and had told Alfie (thereby telling the people who were pumping him for information) that there was no more I could do, it would simply take time, and that I was going to be leaving the room for a couple hours tonight, as I was far from well myself and needed the rest.

But I had sneaked back into the room unseen and was now waiting with Holmes in the darkness for our quarry to show his face. And I was growing a bit nervous, as the time allotted for my absence was now more than half over, and still I saw no sign of anything untoward.

I had been able to judge nothing by the reactions of the nobility or the staff; all looked suitably horrified and offered the same degree of help should I require it. I wondered who in the world could be behind this affair. No doubt Holmes had his suspicions that he would not tell me; he always did. But I really could not picture any one person in this castle performing all those varied incidents with such careful ruthlessness…it was positively horrifying to even think of.

"Shh!" I suddenly heard Holmes's almost noiseless warning and crouched behind the sofa upon the instant, wincing at the contact of cold hard stone beneath my pained hands.

I felt the nervous perspiration rolling down my neck as a soft _snick_ broke the stillness of the room, followed by a squeaking of hinge as the door opened slightly…then a little more…and then a little more.

Since the room was dark and the light behind the figure standing there very, very dim, I could not tell who it was, nor even if it were male or female. But there was someone there, our perpetrator at long last.

The figure did not light the gas or even a match, obviously knowing his way round the room with perfect ease. I watched from my place of concealment as the shadowy figure moved inward, round the chair, toward the table, and reached out for one of the pots standing thereon…

Then there was a sudden thud and a soft splutter as Holmes leapt from the bed, slammed the door shut, and turned the gas on full, whirling upon the figure with a look of utter triumph upon his sharp features.

I stumbled to my feet awkwardly, and the intruder turned hastily to look at me with a slight gasp of surprise and shame. I admit to my mouth dropping open slightly at the sight of the key player in this most dangerous game.

"Well, well, Watson, it seems that your storytelling ability does not fail you, you took everyone in completely with the account of my illness," Sherlock Holmes said coolly, and his eyebrows rose considerably at the sight of the person standing cowering by the table, teapot in hand.

"Lady Cecilia, how nice of you to drop in to see about my health tonight."

* * *

_Well, well...so the lady is the one behind it all? Remember, appearances can be deceiving, and making theories without all the facts can be slightly inaccurate..._


	32. Kind Words Can Warm

_Kind words can warm for three winters, while harsh words can __chill__ even in the heat of summer._

_- Chinese proverb_

* * *

_**Watson**_

Lady Cecilia stood, teapot in hand, staring at the two of us, and looking as guilty as Alfie with his hand caught in a gentleman's pocket.

Holmes stood with his hands in his pockets, his face glowing in triumph as he viewed her auspiciously with his sharp gaze.

His eyes flickered to the teapot in her hand and then up to her face again.

"So it was the tea, then…I thought as much. It struck me oddly when you brought it to me instead of sending Mueller or Lehmann."

Lady Cecilia swallowed and opened her mouth to speak, only to close it again.

Holmes crossed the room and took the teapot from her unresisting hand before gesturing to the sofa.

"Please," he said, setting the pot back onto the tray. "Sit."

For a moment the Lady hesitated, then with an amount of grace and assurance that did her credit, she lifted the train of her gown delicately and perched upon the edge of the cushions, folding her hands in her lap and watching my friend expectantly.

Between her and Holmes's composure, I was feeling very unsure indeed, for I found I could not mask my own surprise or reservations.

"Holmes," I said, softly but still tightly with shock. "What in heaven's name is the meaning of this?"

"This, Watson," Holmes said, in a very self-satisfied manner, "is the beginning of the solution to our problems. The turning point as it were, from here on out we have broken through the veil of deception and begin to discover the truth."

"The beginning…" I gasped in disbelief, looking at the supposedly gentle creature seated upon my couch. "Holmes, there must be some mistake…surely you cannot think Lady Cecilia is behind all this…behind the attack on Lachlan? On ourselves?"

Holmes quieted me by lifting a hand, and I watched him in anticipation, hoping my reservations were correct. Surely not…she was not so cold-hearted, she could not be.

But perhaps she was, for she had said nothing so far, and even as Holmes turned to her once again she remained unmoved, only the pallor of her face attesting to the apprehension and fear that must have been coursing through her. She had observed the wrath that Holmes displayed when his friends came to harm…and if she were responsible then she was at his mercy.

But there was no sign of rage in his eyes as he looked at her now; instead he appeared rather smug, as though his suspicions had been confirmed, as opposed to being completely surprised as I was.

I felt some relief enter my tightly wrought chest when he hastened to reassure me.

"No, no, Watson, old fellow, you are a far better judge of persons than that, and you were not quite that mistaken in her character. The Lady is not the culprit behind this entire scheme…only part of it. A part for which she is well suited…and for which I pray, she has a good reason."

He gave Lady Cecilia a pointed look as he said the words, quirking his eyebrows in that manner particular to him, and this served to break her composure more than anything else. Her carefully sculpted mask crumpled slightly and her eyes gained a spark of fear as she looked up at Holmes, becoming more animated, leaning forward as her lips parted again to speak.

"Herr Holmes…"

But again Holmes waved her to silence.

"You have showed admirable control up to this point, my Lady; it would not do for you to break down in a fit of womanly emotions now. Wait a moment and, pray, let me lay down the facts as I believe they lie."

She looked at him, her eyes imploring, but after a moment she nodded and remained silent.

Holmes smiled slightly. "Thank you."

He turned to me. "Watson, I think a drink may be in order…for when last Lady Cecilia heard of me, I was in death's front yard if not on his doorstep."

"Of course," I turned to the table, where stood my hipflask and a clean glass. It was slightly difficult (and a bit painful, with my hands and one shoulder in their pitiful condition), but I managed somehow, and after dashing a bit of water and brandy into it I crossed to the Lady and pressed it into her hand, watching as she raised it with a shaking hand and drank without protest, some color coming back into her formerly rosy cheeks.

I seated myself in the chair opposite, glaring sternly at my friend. "Holmes, you are making a terrible habit of reappearing from death in a manner likely to drive a person to a heart attack. Would you please explain? It is not often that you accuse one of clients of being the culprit."

"No indeed, Watson, which is why I do not make that accusation lightly. I promise you that until the good Lady's appearance just now my scattered deductions did not fit together inside my mind. I'm a fool not to have realized it before."

My friend turned again to the Lady. "Am I correct in assuming that you still have the cloth you came to collect last night?"

"I do, Herr Holmes," the Lady said, reaching into the folds of her skirt and drawing out a scrap of white cloth which she then extended to my friend with a gloved hand. "And I see no point in keeping it from you, not now…but I beg you will hear me before you pass judgment."

"All in good time, Lady Cecilia." He took the cloth from her, held it before his face and then passed it to me. I took it and examined it carefully.

It was satin, of a very fine quality and high thread-count, torn raggedly at the edges, leaving only one, neat, embroidered edge…as though it had been from the hem of a lady's dress.

"It is of a very modern, and very fine weave. Not what you would expect an ancient ghost to be wearing, is it?"

"This is the scrap that Alfie found?"

"Indeed, Watson, this is the only tangible trace of our spectre that we have gathered so far. And the very scrap that vanished in a like manner as the ghost from under my nose last night. I must say, Lady Cecilia…for an eager bride you have been very careless in preserving your dress for the future happy date."

I looked at the Lady in renewed astonishment.

"Good heavens, you mean that all that time it was you?" I spoke directly to the lady in my shock and she colored slightly, lowering her head.

"Yes, Dr. Watson."

Holmes was smiling still, though I found the whole situation more upsetting than amusing. "Who better to assume the identity of the legend than the one woman who already owned a suitable costume for the role? You would not think it to look at her, would you, Watson, but then I have always said that the opposite gender has a natural turn for deception."

"I'm quite aware of your views, Holmes, though I do not always agree with them," I allowed my voice to become sharp with exasperation. "Would you please explain."

"As far as I am able, and then I shall ask Lady Cecilia to fill in the particulars which I have not managed to deduce," he said glancing at the woman before reaching deliberately out for his pipe to light it.

But I had reached the limits of my patience; this was a delicate situation, not just another one of his infernal puzzles. And it would do the Lady's nerves no good to have this prolonged. Just before his fingers reached the stem of his pipe I snatched it away.

He looked around in surprise, and then glared at me.

"Get on with it, Holmes." I demanded, regretting my precipitate action when pain coursed through my fingers to my wrist, but trying to hide my smile at his indignant reaction to disrupting his usual routine.

For a brief moment I thought he would carry through and protest until I handed it back to him…but as I thought it would, the answers and his precious logic meant more to him, and he turned back to Lady Cecilia, bristling with ruffled pride.

"One would not think it to look at you, my Lady, but you are a very competent actor. I assume it was you and not a confederate who played the part of the ghostly bride, which has been haunting us these past weeks."

I opened my mouth to voice another exclamation of surprise, but was cut off as the Lady nodded slowly.

"And I assume you did not find it difficult to arrange your appearances after you learned of the legend and the Castle's secrets. After all it is perfectly natural that your fiancée should show you passages and family books where such information was kept."

Another nod, and this time I was too busy taking it in to voice my opinions.

"You acquired a bridal dress from your father's company, a natural request for a young woman about to wed…the only unusual occurrence was your requesting it be sent straight onto you here, unbeknownst to your husband, and then with the addition of a thick veil and a bit of practice in the dim corridors, your deception was complete. Shortly thereafter you claimed to have seen this apparition on your own and you made certain that several of the staff saw you as well, though none recognized you…thus the legend and the mystery was born…I take it that you did not have an accomplice."

"Only the young woman who helps me with my dressing and my hair, Herr Holmes." Said the Lady quietly. "I could hardly keep such a thing secret from her, and I required assistance to don my disguise. She is under the impression that I am playing a joke upon my fiancée, however – she is completely innocent of any wrongdoing, you have my word."

I listened with apprehension and disbelief to this account, and this time could not help but put voice to the protests ringing in my head.

"But Holmes…this cannot possibly be right…there is no motivation in it. Why would she created a problem if there was none existing in the first place? Why bother?"

My friend smiled at my puzzlement and took the opportunity to rescue his pipe from my limp hand and stick it, unlit, between his teeth.

"Because, my dear Watson, a mystery of this sort was the very way to draw our attention…and I assume Lady Cecilia that that is why you did it - to bring the two of us down here. My suspicions of you were born when the Count told me you had absolutely insisted we come, but until now I thought no more of the matter."

The Lady nodded, only serving to further confuse me.

"But why? For heaven's sake, Holmes…"

Again Holmes interrupted, and turned his attention to our culprit/client.

"There is another problem, underlying the façade that you have created Lady Cecilia…a difficulty caused by none other than the individual that has seen fit to threaten not the sanity and health of me and my friends, but their very lives…am I wrong?"

"No, Herr Holmes," she whispered, her composure cracking further, and suspicious drops leaking from her eyes, "You are quite correct…as ever. I should have known you would discover my secret sooner or later."

On impulse I drew my handkerchief from my pocket and leaned forward to hand it to her.

She took it unseeing and dabbed at her eyes.

Holmes sighed and waited impatiently for the womanly wiles to pass before continuing.

"Tell me what is threatening you so, Lady Cecilia…Blackmail?"

She nodded. "Just so, Herr Holmes."

"Who?"

This time she shook her head in violent frustration, her voice breaking entirely. "I do not know! Over three months ago…not long after we officially announced our engagement, I received a letter on my morning tray, written anonymously and with the postmark smudged as to be unreadable, but bearing obvious proof that this person held troubling evidence of an indiscretion from my youth. And he threatened to give this information to Heinrich if I did not break off the engagement."

Holmes frowned thoughtfully, though his eyes blazed with anticipatory fervor. "What was the nature of this indiscretion?"

The woman blushed slightly. "It was done when I was no more than sixteen, Herr Holmes, and very nearly a child still. I was in awe of my dashing brother, and he had great influence over me…and unbeknownst to my father my brother took me to a meeting with some of his less than reputable friends."

I snorted in anger and exclaimed "The cad!" before Holmes silenced me with another look.

"They behaved less than acceptably. I left in tears, feeling lower than the trash that litters the streets, though my brother thought nothing of it. Weeks passed and I thought the matter passed. Until one of them saw fit to compose a letter to my father about the incident, and the scandal nearly leaked out until he saw fit to stopper it."

The lady raised imploring eyes to my friend. "There are photographs and witnesses of the incident Herr Holmes…and though I know now that it was not my fault, there are many who would believe so, and who would be happy to ruin Heinrich's reputation with it. Most do not make the connection between me as I am now, and the case then, because of my family's making their fortune in the world…but this mastermind apparently has. If Heinrich finds out, then that should be the end of it, for even, as I believe, it would not matter to him, it would matter to his family and word would leak out."

The poor woman was wringing the handkerchief in her hands now, the tears flowing freely down her face as she held us spellbound in our seats with her story.

"When the threats persisted, I could only think to send for you, and the legend of the bridal ghost seemed to be the most interesting incident that I could come up with. I did not know what else to do. I thought you would come, and through your efforts to discover my ghost you would uncover this villain as well. But then the other incidents started, the horseman that you have seen, and the attack on Herr Lachlan. I was frightened, and when I lost the scrap of my dress in the corridor yesterday, and the _Junge_ spoke of it at breakfast I knew I had to get it back, lest you trace it back to me and connect _me_ with these attempts on your life."

Her cheeks colored rapidly and she bowed her head in utter shame here.

"I brought you the tea last night, in the hopes that you would fall asleep and so allow me to retrieve the cloth, which worked well enough…but then when I heard Dr. Watson speaking of your illness this morning I discovered what a mistake I had made and I returned to cover my tracks yet again. I promise you, Herr Holmes, that I had no idea you would drink more than one cup of that tea before falling asleep, or I should never have put my sleeping pills in the drink.

"I had no intention that things should go this far, Herr Holmes," The Lady cried, her emotions showing freely on her face now, her eyes bright and overflowing with tears. "If I had thought that such harm would befall you and your colleagues I would never have called you in!"

She broke off with a slight moan of fear and sat back, trembling against the cushions of the couch, holding the handkerchief to her lips.

Every instinct inside me prompted me to rise and go to the poor girl's aid, to comfort her…but a stronger impulse, that of my clear thought, kept me still in my seat, one because she was engaged to another man and it would never be proper to approach such a lady in that manner; and there was the simple fact that, intentional or no, she was partly responsible for the predicaments we had undergone.

Holmes watched the lady, his brows set low in a thoughtful scowl, his thin lips turned down in a frown as he leaned against the table, arms akimbo.

A few quiet moments passed in which the crackling of the fire and Lady Cecilia's soft weeping were the only things to be heard, and a sorry sound it made.

I waited to take my cue from him, fiddling nervously with the bandaging on my hands.

He must have felt my eyes upon his face for at long last his face reanimated and he raised his head again, fixing me with that sharp, penetrating gaze.

His eyes were oddly soft now as he looked at me, not so much steely gray as that of fog and mist. He quirked a small smile at me, though his gaze and the furrows of his brow remained somewhat sorrowful and thoughtful. The question on the status of my opinion was clear upon his face, and I think he read my answer clearly on my own countenance, for he wasted not a minute in transferring his gaze from me to the Lady.

"Lady Cecilia," he said, his face and voice very soft, like the delicate touch of a jeweler handling a precious stone.

The Lady in question raised her head, her comely face now less so since it was red and blotchy from her weeping, her eyes somewhat bloodshot and puffy.

Holmes gave her the tic of a smile again and continued.

"Throughout this affair you have shown yourself to be a level-headed and strong-willed young lady, and very in logical in many aspects. I commend you on this, not only because it has made things considerably easier for the Doctor and myself, but also because you had the foresight to make it a smoother journey for yourself as well."

Cecilia sniffled slightly and dabbed at her face with the handkerchief, her hands still trembling, but her attention caught as she listened to my companion.

"By covering your own activities you have made it easier for us to follow your wishes and to keep these things from your husband, thus preserving your future happiness and your marriage. Indeed I can think of very few additional precautions that I myself would have taken."

The Lady listened in near silence to this speech, and when it had ended she sat in surprise for some few moments.

A second later, however, her eyes had cleared to their usual lucidity and she lowered the handkerchief from her face, features slack with relief and surprise.

"But…Herr Holmes…do you mean to tell me…to tell me that…"

"It shall be a challenge and a pleasure to _assist_ you rather than chase your ghost, Lady Cecilia, though I would recommend that in the future you come to me to save us all further trouble…and besides, it is not my custom to leave a case unfinished, no matter what turn or twist that might crop up."

Cecilia gasped suddenly, holding the handkerchief against her mouth once again, her eyes wide.

Holmes frowned, puzzled, but his expression changed to one of alarm when, a moment later, the woman sprang from her seat and fairly flung herself at him, clutching and hanging on his arm, as a young schoolgirl might do.

I do not believe I have ever seen him colour so violently so quickly, and even today it is a memory that I treasure.

As the overwrought woman spurted a boisterous collection of gratitude he struggled to release himself from her hold without seeming to appear rude, but her grip was such that he found the task more than difficult.

When gentle persuasion did not work he attempted to pry her fingers off with sheer force…but this also was met with a strong resistance that the young lady did not seem to know she was applying.

He even shot me a desperate look but I was at a loss, and could only smile, enjoying this rather unusual turn of events immensely.

At last he resorted to his words, blathering assurances and expressions of humility that were not suited to his character as she stepped back, dabbling at her already red eyes with the same handkerchief, smiling through her tears now.

"Oh thank you, thank you, Herr Holmes…and you as well, Doctor!"

She turned to grasp my hand quickly and I bit back a yelp as biting pain erupted in it, lasting long after she let go and turned back to my friend. Perhaps it was time that I took another pain killer; my last one had been nearly six hours ago shortly after Holmes's awakening.

I looked at the rumpled bandaging which covered my hands, and the red bits of swollen finger that poked out between them. Yes, perhaps it was. It was enough to make one swear an end to all ghostly pursuits and chases in the future…I would certainly think twice of it if nothing else.

"I cannot thank you enough," Cecilia continued to gush to Holmes, her smile indicating that she felt as light as a feather at that moment. "Truly, you are doing me the greatest service…and you cannot imagine what a relief…"

"Oh, I think I have some idea." Holmes said quickly, looking as though he almost regretted his decision. "We are happy to be of service, I am sure…but surely, My lady, you have lingered in the Doctor's room long enough. We would not want to arouse the Count's worries, and undo all the precautions you have taken so far. If you would be good enough to wait until tomorrow, and ready any evidence that you have we shall be better able to discuss this in the light of day."

She smiled blearily. "Yes…yes, of course, I shall leave you both…it is late…I will wait for your instructions. Thank you, Herr Holmes…you are indeed the kindest of men."

She hastened to put the cups and both pots on the tray, before lifting them and heading for the door, her step light, almost giddy.

Holmes hastened to pull open the door for her, almost tripping over the edge of the thick, luxurious carpet in his haste to rid himself of the woman.

Not until he had firmly closed the thick door behind her did he allow himself to slump limply in relief and turn to me with an exasperated sigh.

I did not even attempt to keep the grin from my face.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" I asked, deliberately baiting him.

Holmes sighed, rubbed his head and made his way to the sofa. Once he reached it he turned about, and allowed himself to collapse down upon it.

"Women!" he growled with exasperated finality, and threw his arm across his eyes as though to shield himself from the advances of the fairer sex.

So comical was this picture that I laughed outright, leaning backward in my own seat, partially from my relief at the account to which I had just listened.

"Amazing, Holmes," I said, "Simply astounding. To think that such a plot lay beneath this ghostly façade all along…"

"It is a tangled knot is it not, Watson? Still…the thread becomes clearer with each passing moment. And though we do not yet know the identity of our attacker we shall discover that in due course."

I nodded, still smiling in amusement, and I reached out to tap his pipe playfully.

"That might be a bit more beneficial if you filled and lit it, Holmes," I said.

Holmes sighed again and let his arm drop, levering himself from the couch.

"I shall…but not in your proximity, you'll only steal it again. I know your views on excessive tobacco smoke, Watson, but it is a bit far even for you, to steal a fellow's pipe."

He smiled at me and I grinned back.

"Will you be all right here tonight, old fellow, or shall I stick around for a while?"

I nodded. "You could pour me a glass of water before you leave, my shoulder and my hands have not quite recovered yet."

Holmes nodded sympathetically. "Of course."

He performed the task, and then when I had taken the pain relievers I found myself obliged to fall directly into bed while he pulled aside the covers for me.

"Do not wait for me in the morning, Watson…I shall be doing a great deal of thinking tonight and I shall not see fit to cease my deductions even at the rising of the sun."

"Of course." I yawned. "I shall have to deal with Alfie anyway…I fear the child may be rather put out that you misled him yet again Holmes. You do have a horrible habit of playing deceptions upon people who care about you, you know that?"

I saw him blush uncomfortably for the second time that night. "Never mind, you'll sort it out," he said hastily. My friend made his way to the door, and then paused and turned back.

"Oh…and Watson…"

Already mostly asleep, I merely grunted. "Mm?"

"I wouldn't expect to see that handkerchief again. I doubt that it has ever come into such violent grief before and I don't believe that it shall hold up under the strain."

I snorted softly.

"Good night, Holmes."

"Good night, Watson."


	33. A Chill in Their Hearts

_Men felt a chill in their hearts; a damp in their minds. In a desperate effort to snuggle their feelings into some sort of warmth, one subterfuge was tried after another…_

_- Virginia Woolf (1882–1941)_

* * *

_**Watson**_

I had risen and was in my trousers and shirtsleeves the next morning when there was a loud pounding upon my door. Hastily donning my dressing gown, I called for whoever it was to come in; my hands were still more than slightly painful and I did not wish to use them more than necessary on small items like doorknobs.

The door swung open and Alfie bounced in, yelping something in rapid German that I missed entirely.

"Young man, it is far too early to be spitting German so fast at me," I said ruefully, though I was glad to see the boy bouncing with excitement over something.

Before I could remonstrate further, the lad wrapped his arms round my legs and squeezed.

"What was that for?" I laughed, gingerly mussing his ginger mop.

"For gettin' Mr. 'Olmes well ag'in," the lad cried, bounding over to the bed and hopping up on it to re-tie a boot.

"What?"

"Oi seen 'im downstairs a minute ago wit' Miss 'Celia," Alfie informed me. I frowned sternly at him as he swore under his breath at the knotted bootlace before he finally gave up in despair. "An' 'e said yew was such a good doctor, yew got 'im all better by this mornin'!"

Hmph. Holmes's way of wiggling out of responsibility for his deception, but I supposed it would do no harm to allow the lad to think so.

"Alfie, would you do something for me?" I asked.

"Sure, gov. Wot is it?"

"Could you put my cufflinks in?" I still could barely move my fingers.

I had been very amused, and rather touched, to see that Holmes had apparently come into my room whilst I was still asleep and laid out my clothes for me, to negate my having to move my hands much, and had also tied my cravat in a loose enough knot that I could slip the article over my head and then tighten it, instead of having to fumble with it endlessly. A gesture which I appreciated to no end, as I hated asking for help with anything, let alone something so ridiculously simple as dressing.

Alfie's little tongue stuck out the side of his mouth as he frowned, concentrating on slipping the links through my cuffs, but in a moment he had accomplished the task and was bouncing onto the next topic of conversation.

"Blimey, Doctor, i' sure was boring 'round 'ere wit'out yew yesterday," he chirped. "'Ow's yer shoulder doin'? Mr. 'Olmes tol' me ta make sure yew was able ta get yer jacket on."

While he had been speaking, the boy had snatched said jacket and hopped up onto my dressing chair, holding the left arm out so that I did not have to move much.

"I am doing much better, lad, thank you. Though I doubt that I'll be able to chase you through the halls again or throw snowballs at you for a while yet," I said with a smile, and the boy grinned.

Then he suddenly scrounged around in his pocket for a moment, producing a folded white cloth.

"'Ere, Doctor, oi almos' forgot. Th' lady asked me ta give this ta yew," he said, handing me the article – my handkerchief, cleaned and pressed. I smiled and stuffed it into my pocket, and we left to make our way downstairs.

"Yew sure yer oll roight, Doctor?" Alfie asked worriedly, seeing that my pace was a bit slower than normal. "Yew look a bit peaked, if yew ask me."

"I am perfectly fine, my boy, thank you."

"Tha' awful Lady Claudia want'd ta see yew real early this mornin', Doctor," the lad suddenly dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as we began to descend the stairs. "An' did she near 'ave a fit when Mr. 'Olmes wouldn' let 'er in!"

I shuddered, thanking heaven for a faithful friend, and gaining a newfound respect for Holmes to be able to stand against two overwrought women in the same night…that had to be a record of some kind for him…

We entered the corridor leading to the dining hall, and suddenly I heard a familiar whoofing noise and braced myself for a near hysterical outburst from the child at my side.

However, to my immense surprise, when the joyful Ada appeared, bounding toward us, Alfie only shrank a bit closer to me for an instant before stepping forward and pointing a small finger in the dog's direction.

"_Bleib_, Ada!" the lad called sternly, and I felt my jaw drop as the dog skidded to a halt obediently, whining at not being permitted closer to the boy.

"What the devil, Alfie?"

The lad squirmed for a moment, glancing hesitantly up at me. "Well…oi remembered wot yew said once, Doctor, tha' when yer afraid the best thing ta do is concentrate on somethin' yer less afraid of."

I did not exactly remember saying that…

"'Member, when yew was talkin' to me after me mum and papa died in tha' cab accident, an' oi didn' wanna cross a street for long time afterwards?" the boy asked earnestly.

Now I did remember telling him that the best way to deal with a great fear was to concentrate on conquering a lesser one first, poor lad. That had been a terrible spring that year in London.

At my nod, the little urchin went on. "Well, oi was awful 'fraid when Mr. 'Olmes left after yew when yew was lost in th' snow, an' 'cause oi was so scared oi 'membered what yew said. So oi wen' an' made friends wit' that ruddy dog."

"You…made _friends_ with her?" I asked incredulously, remembering the absolute terror on the child's face previously when dealing with the animal.

Alfie's face flushed with pride, the redness causing his ginger freckles to disappear for a moment, and he nodded with a grin. "Oi'm not scared o' th' ol' girl anymore, Doctor, an' she loikes me, see?"

The lad spoke another, more gentle, command in German, and the dog snuffled up to us eagerly, swiping at the child's face with a wet tongue.

"Oi! Stop tha'!" the lad squealed with a gesture of disgust.

"She does wha' oi tell 'er to, Doctor, see? Ada, _Bei Fuß_."

I stared as the dog fell into step behind us, calmly and without barking. "Mr. Mueller tol' me wha' she's been trained ta respond to," Alfie told me, glancing behind him at the eager animal.

"I'm very proud of you, Alfie," I said with heartfelt sincerity, for I knew how much the child had had to overcome to reach that point in banishing his fear of the animal.

"Cor, 'tweren't anythin'," the lad muttered, snapping his fingers pointedly at the dog when she sniffed at my coattails. "'Ere now, none o' tha'."

I laughed when the dog yipped and moved back behind the boy – it appeared she responded more to the lad she was fascinated with than the actual commands, as Alfie had spoken in English that time.

"Ah, Watson. Alfie showed you his latest friend, I see," I heard Holmes's bright voice from the conservatory door as we neared the dining hall.

"Indeed." I smiled down at the lad, who was beaming.

"_Guten Morgen_, _Herr Doktor_," I heard the Lady Cecilia's quiet voice behind my friend as they exited the conservatory.

"We have much to discuss, Watson," Holmes said in an undertone after the morning greetings had been exchanged and the Lady was walking ahead of us to the dining room. "How are you feeling this morning, old chap?"

"Better," I replied. "Certainly up to whatever you have in mind, Holmes."

He grinned and started to clap my shoulder before realising his error when I instinctively braced myself. He threw me an apologetic glance and said, "Excellent. Now put on your most winsome smile, my dear fellow, for you have an incoming armed warrior at your left flank. Best fortify your battlements, old man."

His horribly hackneyed army jargon was almost as bad as the effusive attack the Lady Claudia was in the process of launching upon my unsuspecting person. I heard Alfie and Holmes both sniggering behind me as I attempted to extricate my painful hand from the lady's welcome.

Finally my remonstrations or else my grimace of pain finally got through the lady's rather distracted mind, and she released me to the custody of the Count, who was shooting me a wryly apologetic glance over his cousin's head the entire time.

"I am most glad to see you looking a bit better this morning, Doktor," the man said graciously.

"_Danke_, Count," I replied, glancing at Lady Cecilia who was approaching us.

"_Guten Morgen, Mein Schatz,_" I heard her say in a sweet undertone, and the Count returned the gesture warmly, his clear eyes softening at the sight of his fiancée.

I smiled and left them, relieved in my own mind that we knew the truth, or part of it at least, about the Lady. She did look rather more at ease this morning than she had since we came, no doubt due to her confession and her talk with Holmes this morning. I could scarcely wait until breakfast was over with to question him on the matter.

In consequence, when both Sir August Konig and Hobart Strauss cornered me after the meal to question me about my ordeal (with what seemed to be more curiosity than concern), I answered their queries with mounting impatience until Holmes's timely rescuing me from their clutches, whence we escaped back to a small sitting room off one of the deserted corridors.

"We shall not be overheard here, I trust," he remarked, peeking into the hall before closing the door.

"Yes, but we will freeze to death in short order, Holmes!" I gasped, the words from my mouth each taking the form of an icy cloud in the chill air.

He glanced up instantly with some concern, and I realised what I had said was in rather bad taste, considering what had nearly happened two days ago. I winced, and he smiled tightly.

"It will only be a moment, old chap."

"Fine, Holmes. By the by, what happened to Alfie?"

"He and Meyer were taking Ada for a romp outside when I extricated you from those fellow's claws. Now, Watson. Have you your notebook, because you will want to make note of this," Holmes said absently, digging out his own pocket-notebook and a pencil.

I felt my face flush uncomfortably, and it was his turn to wince. "My apologies, old fellow, I do keep forgetting. Here."

He handed me his own notebook and moved behind me to read over my shoulder (which was expedient, since I could barely read his atrocious scrawl).

"The facts of note – gathered after a long two hours of ridiculously emotional conversation, I might add – are briefly these," said he, reaching down to check the points off with a long thin finger.

"One. The Lady received this first blackmailing note soon after her engagement to the Count. These threats persisted until lately, the last being the day before Christmas."

"The day…the day that the Count left to fetch us," I said suddenly. "He had to have left Bavaria and the Continent on Christmas Eve to reach us by Christmas Day, as the trains and Channel boats do not run on such."

"Exactly. This proves that the blackmailer, whoever he may be, is in close contact with the Lady – and also that he knew exactly why the Count was leaving; only an important matter will take a man from his home on Christmas Eve, and I have no doubt that the household knew why. I still maintain that our culprit is someone within these walls, Watson."

"Did she keep any of the notes?"

"No," Holmes snarled with disappointment, "the last threat she received on Christmas Eve said to put all the previous missives together as well as the current one and place them in a hollow tree near the stables. Obviously our blackmailer knew exactly whom the Count was fetching and was making sure the evidence was destroyed well before our arrival."

"Calculating man."

"Most definitely. But the interesting factor here, Watson, and the second point of note, was that this man – if he is a man – never has demanded money, merely that the engagement be broken off."

I blinked slowly, processing this fact. "That does seem to ring a little false, doesn't it?"

"Quite false, Watson. And that, coupled with the fact that this has been going on for three months without any harm befalling the lady…what conclusions can you draw from these suggestive features?"

I frowned, thinking for a moment. "For one, that the Lady certainly has better nerve than many of her class. We both know from experience that blackmailers are usually quite ruthless, and that is not something to be toyed with lightly."

Holmes laughed softly. "Yes, yes, my dear fellow, I know you think highly of the woman. I meant what can you deduce about the blackmailer himself from that?"

"Oh." I grinned at his fond amusement before bringing my mind back to the problem. "That…he does not really wish to hurt her?"

"It is a hypothesis, certainly. He may not wish any actual harm to her – simply that the marriage be broken off. That gives us a new, very interesting, set of motives to work with. What else?"

"Or else that…" I scowled, not in the mood for one of his brain games so soon after a large breakfast. "Or else what, Holmes?"

My friend smiled triumphantly. "Or else that he is using this entire thing as yet another misdirection – the marriage is not his real target."

"That's a little elaborate a deception for such a thing, isn't it?" I asked incredulously.

Holmes's grey eyes lit up with the feral gleam of triumph I was familiar with, and he pointed to the third checked item on the page.

"Not when you see this third point that the Lady confided in me this morning. Watson, the Strauss family textile business is going under. Completely bankrupt, if this marriage does not take place to save the family fortune."

I was shocked to hear of the thing – the entire business was going bankrupt?

"The Lady told me," Holmes said, sitting opposite me and leaning forward, checking the points off on his fingers as he explained, "that dear brother Hobart has been gambling a little too heavily with the family funds. This, coupled with a slump due to a competing business, is putting them under in a bad way. The Lady brings very little dowry."

"Does the Count know this?" I gasped.

Holmes nodded with a small snort. "She says he knows, and does not care – he is marrying below his station anyway for love, so why should he?"

"Well, that is admirable…" I began, but stopped at Holmes's exasperated rolling of the eyes.

"Rubbish, Watson, and completely beside the point. The point is, that whoever is behind this could be motivated not by money, but by revenge – someone who wants the entire family ruined, not just the woman or the Count. Break off the marriage, and the entire family goes into ruins."

"Good heavens, that leaves us with even more motives than before to sift through!" I said in dismay.

"Indeed. And it also brings up the very interesting point…that these threats all stopped when we were engaged upon the case. Whoever this man is, he knows who we are and our real reason for being here," Holmes said slowly, tapping his chin with a long finger. "He stopped his threats upon our arrival. Now, I only wonder…"

"Wonder what?" I asked hesitantly, a nervous feeling creeping along my neck.

"I wonder why he has stopped, Watson, and what his true game is. Why did he stop when we arrived – what is he waiting for? He must know that we are not going to return to England; we shall stay until these two get married if we must, but I will _not_ be driven from a case that has become so personal!"

The detective's eyes flashed with a grey icy flame as he glared at me, as if daring me to contradict his words.

I merely sighed, absently setting the notebook on the table and carefully leaning on my hand. "I thought the discovery of the woman's part in the drama would make things simpler, not more complicated."

"As did I, Watson," Holmes sighed.

Suddenly he stopped, his head jerking round with an almost audible snap, as there was a scrabbling at the door and then a very familiar pounding. I grinned.

"Come in, Alfie," I called, handing Holmes back his notebook.

The door opened to reveal the lad, dripping snow everywhere, and with an exuberant dog on the end of a leash.

"How did you know where we were, young man?" Holmes demanded irritably, standing to pocket his notebook.

Alfie smirked. "Oi'm teachin' 'er 'ow ta hunt, Mr. 'Olmes. Oi let 'er sniff one o' yer slippers when we came in, an' off she goes, free as yew please!"

I attempted to stifle the laugh that rose in my throat at Holmes's scandalised expression and hoped that the slipper had merely been sniffed at, no more.

"What do you need, Alfie? Dr. Watson and I were having a very important conversation just now," Holmes responded, visibly bristling at my merriment.

"Mr. Lehmann said tha' when Mr. Keller went ta town this mornin' for th' post, this was waitin' for yew a' the telegraph office, Mr. 'Olmes," the lad sniffed indignantly, handing my friend a yellow envelope.

Holmes took the missive with a muttered apology for his curtness, slitting the envelope and extracting the telegram – probably an answer to his query from Lachlan and Haight, though the Lady Cecilia had already now informed us of her family's financial status.

Alfie rolled his eyes at me and yelped as Ada stuck a cold wet nose under his shirt. "Stop tha', yew bleedin' mutt! Blimey!"

I laughed at the boy's indignant yelping, but my amusement choked and died suddenly as I saw Holmes's face drain of what little colour it contained, and he felt for the arm of his chair and sat down heavily, looking at the page in front of him without a word.

I felt an icy chill run over me that had nothing to do with the frigid temperature of the room. Something was wrong…

"Holmes, what's happened?" I demanded, half wanting to know and half dreading the answer.

The grey eyes that raised to meet mine were hollow with what I recognised as guilt. "I should never have let them leave here, Watson," he said, his voice unsteady with grief.

"What _happened_?!"

Holmes lifted the wire to his eyes once more. "I sent that inquiry to be delivered to Haight on their last stretch of tracks before Vienna. This is from the conductor of the train, forwarded to the station office and then back here."

"Well?" I gasped, feeling the blood pounding in my ears in horrible anticipation.

"They…they never reached Vienna, Watson," Holmes whispered.

* * *

_--KCS ducks-- _

_This cliffhanger and what happens in the following chapters is completely PGF's responsibility, I claim none, I swear!_


	34. An Old, Mouldering House Full of Gloom

_The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts._

_- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

"What do you mean, they never made it?" Watson demanded, once the shock of the thing had faded slightly. His face had assumed a look of dread and fear that my own was trying desperately to conceal.

"All it says is that they were not aboard by the time of the last stop before Vienna."

"Perhaps…perhaps they got off for luncheon or something, or to sightsee, or send word to Haight's paper, and just missed the wire," Watson offered, trying to latch onto a harmless explanation.

"Perhaps," I murmured, though every instinct I had screamed against such a simple reason for their not being on the train.

Alfie was still standing in the doorway, biting his lower lip fearfully.

"Alfie. Run and fetch Keller, tell him we need a ride to town at once," I ordered. If we were to find our friends, we would need to work far quicker than we had yet in this case…it had already been two days since they left.

My little urchin nodded nervously and pelted from the room, Ada sniffing after him eagerly. I turned to Watson.

"I saw them board the train myself, Watson, so we shall begin our inquiries on the second stop along their route. Bring your revolver and your medical bag, just in case."

I then whirled on my heel, not wishing him to see exactly how worried I truly was over the matter, and left the room, going to inform the Count of what had happened.

Obviously, the man (or woman, but I suspected a man) we were after, our blackmailer, had evidently thought that Lachlan and his reporter had left Weissberg Castle on my orders, when in reality they had been on mere business for Haight's American newspaper. I cursed myself for allowing them to leave in the first place, but how could I have known that our criminal had such close tabs upon us that he thought our friends had left under my orders?

That bespoke of someone not wanting them to make it to Vienna…someone not wanting them to find out the true facts about the Strauss family fortune, in all probability. Who had a motive for covering up the family's bankruptcy?

The Lady had no motive, as she had told both me and the Count the truth already. Besides, she was only a mere factor in the business. Her brother, Hobart, on the other hand…if he were the one plunging the family into debt, he could very well have a strong motive for not wanting Lachlan and Haight to find that out and bring it to my attention, if he did not know that his sister had already told the Count.

Especially if Strauss had been skimming off the top of the family profits to fund his gambling, he would definitely have a motive for not wanting the facts to come to light.

Any other suspect, I could see no reason why they would be willing to commit abduction for the sake of keeping information quiet. But a jail sentence for embezzling, and the threat of a scandal being brought to light that would ruin the Count's marriage and thereby the fortune to Cecilia by said marriage…that would be enough to kill for, certainly.

_What was I saying?_ I gasped at the horrible thought that had unbidden weaseled its way into my mind, shaking the idea out of my head and hurrying along the cold corridor to the Count's study.

I informed the Count of the foul play I suspected, that was probably connected to this case, and within a half-hour I was struggling into my overcoat in the front entrance, glancing at my watch and looking round for Watson – we would cut the next train close but we would make it if he hurried.

The Lady Cecilia came hurrying up to me with Alfie in tow as well as a couple of steaming cups in her hands, one of which she offered to me.

"May I have your word that this is free of any…additional condiments, my lady?" I asked, feeling my face twitch in a grin despite the situation.

The lady blushed deeply and nodded. "I am very sorry to hear of this, Herr Holmes," she said quietly. "Why do you suppose…"

"Considering your family's financial secrets, madam, I should say that is a strong motive for keeping investigations out of Vienna," I replied soberly.

"But your friends left for their occupations, not to help you, did they not, Herr Holmes?"

"Indeed they did, Lady Cecilia – but the man who is after you and thereby after us might not have been aware of that fact," I sighed, buttoning up my coat and handing the empty coffee cup back to the woman with a muttered thank-you.

Alfie looked worriedly at me, and I smiled tightly. "Alfie, I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and I also want you to roam about and do try to figure out if any person, or any messages, left this house the day Mr. Lachlan and Mr. Haight left. Can you do that for me?"

The lad nodded. I laid a hand on his head and looked up; Watson was hurrying toward me, carrying his medical bag in his bandaged hands.

I held his coat for him to avoid using that bad shoulder and then handed him his mittens, cracking the door against the cold to see that Keller was waiting for us with readied sleigh.

"Be good for Lady Cecilia, Alfie," Watson admonished the boy, thankfully draining the hot drink the lady offered him.

"Roight, Doctor. Bye, Mr. 'Olmes!" the boy called sadly, watching us go with obvious wistfulness. But taking him was certainly not an option, considering what the worst was that we might find.

Watson was deathly quiet the entire ride to Weissberg, and I spent the time in pondering motives. The thing was so…complicated, so inscrutable, that I felt as if I were once again in a snowstorm, this time made of my own thoughts, each idea and motive a whirling flake and biting gust of wind trying to distract me and drive me from my intended destination. I could see no explanation that would cover all the facts as we knew them; some, but not all.

If Strauss were responsible for Lachlan and Haight's disappearance, that fit perfectly. But then it certainly did not fit with the idea of blackmailing the girl into breaking off the marriage – the marriage was the only thing that would save that family's finances from irretrievable ruin thanks to Strauss's gambling. It simply did not fit together.

I gave up at last, shivering in the chill wind, and slumped down in the sleigh next to my morose friend, wishing we had never accepted this case, that we had never had that chance meeting with our old acquaintance and his new cohort, that we were back in Baker Street with a warm fire, my pipe and violin, and Mrs. Hudson's _English_ cooking. I was growing weary of strudel and sauerbraten…

Odd how the mind can be so easily sidetracked into inane channels without control. I firmly pulled myself back into the present and turned to look at Watson, who was sitting with his eyes closed, though the rapid puffs of air escaping into the cold atmosphere from his lips told me he was far from asleep. I wondered how much pain he really was in, for he was as good an actor as I when it came to hiding discomfort from me.

He blinked and opened his eyes when the sleigh began to slow, the rooftops of the village below us shining with golds and silver-whites and warm browns in the morning sun, an almost cheery sight that sent a pang of mockery through both our troubled souls, I fancied.

Keller left us at the station, and while I procured us two tickets for the train that stood nearly ready to depart by the platform Watson secured us a compartment, thankfully empty. I doubted that either of us really had a desire for company besides one another's at the moment.

_**Watson**_

We were well on our way before I felt up to talking about the matter. Holmes explained upon my query what he believed the motives to be, but I agreed with him that the entire thing did not hang together. Something else was at work here, some other factor that, like the Lady Cecilia's part in the business, was not fitting with the general direction of the case.

"I would say it was a very pretty little problem, Watson," Holmes sighed, lighting his pipe slowly, "save for the fact that it has become more of a vendetta against me than an actual case against a client. Almost as if…"

"As if this man, whoever he might be, is more interested in taking advantage of your presence to ruin you than he is to continue his extortion of the Lady?" I asked incredulously.

The detective shrugged. "I believe we have now become his primary focus, alongside the secondary one of what brought us down here in the first place, Watson. He is indeed, a foeman worthy of our steel: ruthless, cunning, and obviously deadly. I have not seen a man who was so absolutely merciless since the late unlamented Culverton Smith…or perhaps Rodger Pearson, that nasty little counterfeiter we ran into last autumn, remember Watson?"

I remembered, and preferred not to more than I could help, as that case was undoubtedly one of the bloodiest in our chequered careers. I shuddered and changed the subject before more nightmarish memories resurfaced.

A half-hour later, the train made its first stop of the day, and in the ten minutes in which we sat at the station Holmes questioned everyone in sight about our friends…station master, porter, cab driver, everyone he could find. And the station master informed us that only one person had gotten off the Vienna-bound train two days ago at the time in question; he remembered the fact because usually there were at least three or four and this time it was only one.

As he was quite adamant about the fact, we boarded the train again in disappointment and moved on to the next station, another hour along the way. The train made a longer stop here to replenish its coal supply, and several people disembarked for the half-hour break, heading to the scattered cafes, as this town it looked to be a larger village than Weissberg.

Holmes strode rapidly through the crowd on the platform, nearly knocking over a fur-bundled woman with a pink-cheeked infant crying in her arms, and leaving me to mutter apologies as I ploughed after him in the press.

I reached the station and was glad to enter the relatively warm and calm room, feeling snow starting to melt off my coat as I walked up to where Holmes was speaking in rapid German to the rotund, red-faced station master, demanding if he had seen our missing friends the day they had disappeared.

"Herr Holmes, we get so very many people pass through this station in a day's time –" the portly man was protesting as I reached the detective's side.

"They would have been rather conspicuous," Holmes said insistently. "One English, one American. The American speaks no German whatsoever and the Englishman very little. They probably were traveling with at least two, possibly more other men."

_"Einen Amerikanische, sagen sie?"_

"_Ja_, name of Renie Haight," Holmes replied eagerly.

The rotund little station master frowned and then glanced behind him to the back room in which unclaimed luggage collected dust and irritation from passengers who had forgotten their bags.

_"Kohler, kommen sie sofort her, aber dalli!" _the man bellowed, and an instant later a young, dark-eyed and fair-haired porter poked his head into the main room and the rest of him soon followed suit.

_"Was ist denn jetzt schon wieder?"_ the young fellow asked curiously, seeing the station master's frown.

The man explained in a rapid staccato German whom we were looking for, and the lad's dark eyes lit up with remembrance.

_"__Ach, einen Amerikanische - ja, natürlich!"_ Kohler replied excitedly.

"You remember them then?" Holmes demanded, nearly pounding on the counter top in his excitement and leaning over it to get closer to the man in question. I was scarcely less enthused myself, and I leant forward as well as Kohler began to explain.

I found all my concentration engaged on translating the rapid German, but the gist of it was that both Haight and Lachlan (the man remembered Renie's accent and Lachlan's bulk), along with three other men, had all been in the station together. The young fellow had remarked the fact because the Bavarian men were dressed very differently from the reporter and the seaman, and he thought the fact odd, together with the fact that Haight spoke no German.

"Did they re-board the train?" Holmes demanded.

Kohler shrugged. "I did not see, Herr Holmes," he replied. "I was working in the back there with the lost luggage, and when I came back they were all vanished."

Holmes cursed in a manner that would have made Lachlan proud had he heard, and he then turned a glower in my direction.

"Now we do not know if they got back on the train or took off on foot or vehicle from here!" he snarled, beginning to pace the floor in nervous excitement, his hands clasped behind him and his head sunk upon his chest as he debated the best course of investigation.

But, the thought occurred to me, Haight was no fool, as we all knew, and neither was Lachlan, though his mental processes might have been dulled by pain from his injuries. Surely, if they _had_ stayed here and been taken from this place, surely one of them would have left us some clue, if they were able…

I frowned in thought, Kohler and the little station master looking curiously from me to my distraught friend until my eyes fell on the open door behind the counter. Luggage…lost luggage…

"Kohler," I said suddenly, fumbling for the quickest German I could muster. "Do you happen to know if these men left any baggage behind? A valise, a small notebook, anything?"

"I suppose I could check, Herr…"

"Watson, Dr. John Watson. The names on the luggage would be William Lachlan or Renie Haight," I told the young fellow. "It is most urgent that we see if they left anything behind them, especially if it was left in the station or on the platform."

Kohler yawned and nodded amiably, shuffling into the back room. In a few moments I could hear sounds of boxes and bags crashing and being moved about, and I turned round to see Holmes angrily pacing more swiftly, glaring at the track he was making on the floor.

"Watson…I am in a dilemma," he said finally, glancing up at me. "If they have gone further on, we cannot afford to allow the trail to get cold by remaining here. If they took off on foot or carriage or what not from here, then we cannot afford to go on and miss the better portion of the day. We –"

"Herr Doktor Vatson," Kohler suddenly shouted, jumping out from the room and waving a small, very familiar notebook. "Is this the man you are seeking?"

I snatched the book and Holmes looked eagerly over my shoulder. Sure enough, the inside cover page bore the inscription _'R. Haight, Daily Enquirer, New York, New York'_.

"He left it, Watson – to tell us they remained here!" Holmes cried triumphantly.

I smiled to myself, glad that I had thought of the thing for once before Sherlock Holmes did – but there were more important things at the moment than my pride and so I said nothing.

"Come, Watson. Five men had to have chartered a carriage or horses or something, and surely an American, and Englishman, and three Bavarians would be remembered! Come along!" Holmes shouted, bursting out the door of the station without another look at the startled station master and porter.

I pocketed the book despite the feeble protest from the rotund gentleman and hurried after him, tossing a quick _"Entschuldigung!" _for my rudeness over my shoulder on my way out into the cold.

* * *

"I swear, Watson, I shall never forgive myself –"

"Will you stop it!" my overwrought nerves finally snapped as we scuffled our way through the snow up the path to the deserted farmhouse. "Stop that self-deprecation; we need you to _think_, to _lead_, Holmes! I need you to, and Lachlan and Haight need you to!"

Holmes stared in some shock at me, and then his brow cleared, his eyes grew more cold and back to their normal controlled sheen.

I breathed a sigh of relief, sending a puff of ice into the air; Sherlock Holmes rarely gave any place to anything but logic, especially emotion; but when he did, his mind grew so imbalanced by the novelty that sometimes he would not even realise his mental processes became clouded by it. None of us needed that right now.

I smiled briefly at the idea that for once, it was I ordering him to remain in control, instead of the other way round as it was under normal circumstances…he must indeed be feeling guilt over the matter to be so affected.

"Get off the path, it ends just ahead," said he, motioning me behind him and creeping along the edge of the treeline in the shadows cast by the afternoon sun.

After two hours of searching every stables and carriage or wagon rental location within walking distance of the station, we had finally found the place that had rented a wagon and team to a group containing a young American and Englishman as well as three other rough-looking men. I was surprised at how easy it had been to trace the group…obviously the fellows had no idea we would be on their trail so soon else they would certainly have taken more care to cover their tracks.

Even easier still was the fact that the stable lad who had harnessed the team had heard them talking about this old condemned farmhouse, supposed to be haunted by local legend. The lad had thought it strange at the time but was the type to mind his own business and no one else's, only seeing fit to tell us what he had heard through some golden metallic persuasion by an extremely impatient Sherlock Holmes. The boy had thought the group to be what he called 'ghost-hunters', and he had thought that was why they were interested in the old house.

Holmes had immediately procured a smaller trap for our use, and after seeing me and my medical bag (I dearly hoped I should not need it) into the seat, he jumped up and whipped up the horses before he had even sat down. The drive was not long, and the trail easy to follow…yet another thing that was far too simplistic about the whole affair.

I said as much to Holmes as we rattled along at a breakneck pace, and the detective's eyes drew together and narrowed sharply.

"I agree, my dear fellow. It is just far too easy a trail to follow. This man we're dealing with is cleverer than that, Watson, we _know_ he is much cleverer. Something just is not right, and I do not like it a bit. By heaven, Watson – the blame for this entire mess is completely upon me, and I swear if they've harmed either of them… "

I gulped as he trailed off furiously and said no more, instead concentrating on calming my nerves. When we reached the drive of the old abandoned house, we left the trap and horses at the end of the trees, out of sight in a small copse of snow-laden evergreens. Then Holmes started crunching briskly through the snowy woods in the direction of the house.

Suddenly he halted and knelt in the snowy path, scanning the tracks that apparently were there. I saw only a double line of half-frozen slush, but obviously his trained eye could perceive more, for he uttered an exclamation of disappointment.

"Three sets of tracks – one incoming and two outgoing. The freshest is this outgoing one, a wagon that had to have left at least a day ago, because the tracks have been filled in partially from the dusting of snow last night or the night before. It has not returned."

"That doesn't mean the house is unoccupied," I muttered, glancing dubiously at the dilapidated building.

"Not for long," Holmes growled, yanking my revolver from his pocket (he had taken it from me as I could barely move my fingers still) and cocking it in an angry snapping motion before making a dash for the house.

Proof of how distrait he was over this affair was evidenced in the fact that he nearly ran in full view of the windows until I hissed a warning. Then he moved to the blind spot at the corner of the building and approached more sedately with me at his heels. We found the back door of the place and stopped, listening.

"We should have gotten a warrant," I said in dismay, for the door was locked.

"We have no time, and besides this place has been condemned, you saw the sign out front!" Holmes hissed, handing the revolver to my outstretched palm and going to work on the lock.

It gave way easily…far too easily for my liking. This entire affair had just been too absurdly simple. I felt a crawling, creeping sensation starting to slither its way down my neck and spine…something was not right…

The same thought had occurred to my companion, evidently, for he took the revolver back from me and glanced at me with furrowed brows.

"Stay close behind me, Watson, and be prepared to run for it if we are walking into a trap. This is just far too childishly convenient," he whispered, opening the door.

No sound could we hear within save the dripping of a leaking roof somewhere, a steady plop-plop of slush melting through a ceiling-board.

Holmes glanced down at the very dusty floor once we reached the main hall without mishap. "Footprints, three men, and one set leaving and one entering," he whispered. "They made one trip."

I felt a chill run down my spine. "Three men, all of them leaving? Surely one man alone could never have taken both of them from that wagon into the house here…"

My friend shot me a worried look, not voicing the thought we both were thinking. Lachlan most likely would not have been able to put up much of a fight in his condition.

"There probably is no one here any longer, Watson," Holmes said with a sigh, indicating the tell-tale footprints. "In all probability, they spent the night here the first night before moving them somewhere closer to the Castle. But we may as well have a look just in case. Come along, and watch where you're treading."

We followed the footprints, which were clearly visible in the thick dust, into what looked like a mouldering kitchen, and then on through that into a larger sitting room area closer to the back of the house.

"I don't like this," I heard Holmes muttering snatches of debate to himself, "I don't like it, something's wrong…it's too easy…too childishly easy…"

My skin was crawling with the uncertainty of waiting, thinking that every shadow housed an assassin, every creak of old boards bespoke of a lurking phantom. When Holmes brushed against a crumbling wall and a large piece of wall-paper fell off to slap me in the face, I nearly screamed with the disgusting shock of the mouldy wetness. I could indeed see why the locals were given to tales about the place being haunted.

We moved through the sitting room to a hallway, and though the light was dimmer there we could vaguely see the footprints leading to a small bedroom, its door closed and…unlocked. This was just too strange.

Holmes glanced worriedly at me, listening carefully at the door, and we heard nothing.

"If I tell you to run, go straight for the trap, Watson, and get help from the village," he whispered, putting one hand on the knob and holding the gun pointed inward with the other.

I opened my mouth to protest but he flung the door open before I could, slamming it against the peeling wallpaper and stepping into the room, revolver aimed.

Then the gun nearly dropped from his hand as we both saw a disheveled figure slumped against the mouldy wall, bound hand and foot. A pair of brown eyes, worn with pain and clouded with cold, suddenly opened wide at the sight of us over a tightly-wound handkerchief that prevented him from crying out.

"Good Lord, Haight!" I gasped, reacting far quicker than the startled detective.

I hastily knelt in front of the young man, reaching behind his ear to attempt to untie the smothering cloth with my fumbling fingers while Holmes stood over us both, warily looking round and keeping a tight hold on the gun.

No sooner had it come off than the detective snapped out, "Where are the others, Haight? This is far too convenient a rescue."

I was about to angrily remonstrate with my friend for his hasty and rather calloused demands for information had I not known the wisdom of finding out if this were a very simple trap for us…until Haight's eyes suddenly and abruptly welled up with tears as he looked pleadingly at me.

"What is it?" I breathed, swallowing down a lump of ice that had settled in my throat to choke me.

At my tone, Holmes turned with a look of apprehension and crouched in front of the young reporter.

"Haight," he said softly. "Where are they?"

"The men…th-three of them…left me here day before yesterday," the reporter gasped out, a lone tear rolling down his young face as he tried to calmly answer Holmes's questions. "Haven't been back…"

The conspicuous fact here was the absence of the one person unaccounted for whom we had never seen lately except in the company of the young man in front of me…the one person missing whom I truly cared for…

"Haight, where's Lachlan?" I whispered, a knot of tension forming in my chest and starting to restrict my breathing.

The reporter gulped once, twice…and then turned such a hollow, empty, pain-laced gaze upon me that I could not, did not need to, voice the question again. That same look I had seen upon my face every time I looked in the mirror in the late spring months of 1891.

No…_God in heaven, please no_…

I found that I could not remain kneeling due to the pounding in my head and sat unsteadily on the filthy floor, my heart throbbing in my ears and a great roaring noise filling them to all but block out any other sounds.

Holmes leaned forward, beginning to inspect the knots on the lad's bound wrists to see the least painful way of releasing him.

"Haight, I need the truth," he said with more gentleness than I should have expected from him.

I tried desperately to steady my breathing, as I could tell it was growing far too rapid. Haight no doubt would need a doctor shortly, and I must be ready to perform my duty as one…but…

"Those men…I d-don't know who they were, they just…grabbed us on the train…took us off, and g-got a wagon…we came through the woods, drove forever…" the reporter gasped, obviously choking back a sob, " and…they…th-they shot Lachlan."

* * *

_All right, all right, all right - you ALL know_ _my_ _policy on character death,_ _so all threats, lynch mobs, air-guns (or AK47s, Violet!), and rotten produce should be directed at my collaborator, not me; I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS! They're not even my characters!_

_--goes off to sob miserably behind bulletproof laptop screen--_


	35. The Question of Ghosts

_But psychoanalysis has taught that the dead—a dead parent, for example—can be more alive for us, more powerful, more scary, than the living. It is the question of ghosts._

_-Jacques Derrida (20th century), French philosopher._

* * *

_**Holmes**_

Haight's pronouncement struck me like a physical blow, and I paused in untying Haight's hands to look at his face, which was a shell of grief, bereft of the emotion and life that had filled it.

"What?" Watson whispered, trembling slightly as he knelt before the American, his breath coming fast and shallow…too shallow. I needed him to keep his head, especially now.

Haight was shaking, not only from the frigid atmosphere but from exhaustion and suppressed emotion; his teeth were set and he drew in ragged breaths between them, as one might do to brace themselves to keep from crying out in pain.

"They shot him," he repeated. "They shot him…he's dead."

Dead. There was a terrible finality to the word, one I could not shake; but I could not, _would_ not reconcile that word with my memories of the midshipman, the man who had saved my life in an empty London dockyard…had defeated my attackers singlehandedly and then after carrying me back to the main roads had commandeered a cab to take me to Watson.

Truth be told, my recollection of that night was exceedingly fuzzy in places, and there were moments when I was unaware of where I was and when I blacked out entirely. But I recalled vividly the strong arms of the midshipman, of the quiet reassurance they conveyed. Despite the circumstances I had felt safe…or at least that I would soon be in a place of safety.

He was, to use one of Watson's horribly clichéd phrases, "too full of life" to be taken out by a simple lump of lead…and by such common thugs as the ones that had apparently brought Haight here.

Through the seconds that it took for these thoughts and emotions to go through my mind I had been working on Haight's bindings, though the whole process was devilishly tricky because they had cut deeply into the skin and coated with blood that had long since dried.

Haight had struggled violently at some point…and then he had stopped. And the reason for his sudden acceptance of his situation was only too clear.

"What do you mean, Haight?" Watson gasped, his voice rising in pitch and desperation. "Where is he…he's not…he can't be…"

Never before had I been so grateful, and so resentful, of the nature of my mind that insisted I look at every situation, even one such as this, with a detached and logical air. On the one hand it helped me to keep a clear head and take control…on the other it allowed me to realize quite clearly, the full measure of my grief.

"Watson," I said in what I hoped was a soothing manner, gripping one of my friend's shoulders in both comfort and warning.

He looked at me at once, his eyes already burning with desperation, begging the question for which I had no answer.

"Watson," I continued giving his shoulder a slight squeeze. "For once, my dear friend, you have forgotten to be a doctor…Haight is here and now, and we shall attend to him, and then we shall see to Lachlan -"

"He's dead." Haight's bitter words sounded again, cutting me off.

I flinched, closing my eyes and taking a bracing breath, trying to banish the sudden images of the seaman's cold lifeless corpse from my mind.

When I was in control again I opened them and looked sternly at Watson, who had not taken his eyes from my face.

"See to him, old fellow,. Try to concentrate."

After a moment of hesitation, Watson nodded. He took hold of his bag (bless him, he had thought to bring it with him from the trap) and I unclasped it for him before drawing my penknife and turning my attention back to Haight.

"Don't give up just yet, Haight," I said, slicing neatly through the ropes, careful to avoid the numbed, purple fingers and split wrists. "Lachlan is resilient; we'll find him and the others. They won't get far."

The moment Haight's hands came free he reached up and clutched ineffectively at my jacket. "N-no…Mr. Holmes…you d-don't understand…"

I gripped his hands, trying to steady him as Watson took the lad's pulse, his face set.

"What do you mean?" I asked, fixing Haight's eyes with my own. "Calm down, Haight. Tell me what happened."

Haight swallowed, his face a contortion of rage and pain. "They didn't take him…there's no worth in a dead man."

There was a physical pain in my chest, as though my heart had suddenly splintered into ice. "Where is he? What's happened?"

"I told you they shot him!" the American shouted, convulsing in my grip, tears breaking free of his eyes and trailing freely down his bruised face.

"He's going into shock," Watson said quietly, taking his jacket off and putting it around Haight's shoulders.

"I'm fine, Doctor," the reporter gasped, giving him a very pained smile of thanks. "I just…I…Oh, God…" His hoarse voice broke completely and he lowered his head, his rasping in quick, desperate breaths, almost as though he would be ill.

"Haight," I said, maintaining my grip on his hands. "I need to what has happened. If Lachlan is still here…"

"He's not," came the strained voice. "They never brought him."

"Where is he then?" I gasped, my abnormally strained patience coming close to snapping.

I was instantly admonished with a look from Watson. "Gently, Holmes." His voice was as unsteady as mine was though, and he too was gazing at Haight with a desperate look.

"I know most of it already, Haight. We traced you to the station, where you were taken by at least three men…"

"We found your notebook," Watson added kindly, producing the thin volume from his coat pocket.

"But I need you to tell me what happened then, Haight. Where is Lachlan? Calmly, slowly, and from the beginning, now."

The American raised his head gingerly and his hands gripped my wrists, as though looking for some way to brace himself.

"Th-they came off the train just behind us, two of them…the third was waiting at the platform. They had revolvers…took us from the crowds without a fuss, 'cept I was able to leave my notebook," Haight rattled off numbly, his eyes focused on my shoulder rather than my face. "Lachlan saw them first, but they managed to c-corner us away from the ticket office…we didn't even know who they were…or why they…"

Here the lad's voice gave out, and I was obliged to take out my flask and help him swallow some brandy before he could continue.

He swallowed it eagerly, choking and coughing, causing Watson to deepen the worry line between his brows. It was evident from his pallor and sallow cheeks that neither food nor water had passed his lips for a while.

"Easy, Haight," my friend said, taking hold of the American's shoulders and helping him to lean back against the wall. "Take your time."

Haight swallowed again and coughed, before closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths. He was still shaking, though not as violently, and some color was creeping back into his cheeks. When he had his breath back he continued.

"They smuggled us from the station and loaded us into a wagon, tying our hands to the sides. They underestimated Lachlan…he was playing up his injuries, making them seem worse than they were, so they pretty much left him alone." Haight smiled sadly, swallowing again. "I knew what he was up to, but I still wasn't ready for it when he finally got loose…we were already far out from the town, into the trees."

The reporter was paling again as the memories returned afresh, and he put his head in his hand clumsily, not taking any notice of the temporary bandage that Watson was attempting to wind around the wrist.

"He got loose, and then he came across the wagon to help me…but they noticed the movement and he only had time to leap from the cart and make a dash for the trees."

More tears were finding their way from behind Haight's hand, and he took another bracing breath before going on. Watson had an arm around his shoulders which I knew was for comfort as much as warmth.

"They shot at him, two of them…one with a revolver and another with a rifle that had been in the wagon…it was the second or third shot that…"

I swallowed myself, blinking my eyes to try and banish the images that came with this explanation. How could I have been such a fool!?

"Did you see where he was hit?"

Haight shook his head. "I did not even see how many struck him…at least twice…one grazed his leg at least because he dropped there, and then he twisted around at the next shot and fell backward…there was a small ravine beside the road, you probably saw it on your way…"

Watson was growing paler with every word, and with these last his face drained of all color, he was biting his lip, his own eyes over-bright.

The reporter's voice broke into a sob and he gasped out the last bit of his explanation. "He rolled down it….they peered over, and saw him lying there…but they wouldn't go after him…said it was t-too dangerous."

More images and thoughts came unbidden to my mind and I could not shake them, could not help but picture the familiar, robust form, supine in the snow.

"Did _you_ see him, Haight?" I asked softly; perhaps the men had merely been toying with the young fellow…

Another moment passed before Haight nodded. "They thought it would be amusing…pulled me to the edge, let me have a look…he wasn't moving…"

"Then they left him there?"

Another nod. "They said they would not risk their necks for a man's corpse…a storm was picking up…they were in a hurry…"

"Then they brought you here?" I prompted when he did not continue.

Haight was cradling his head in both hands now, his fingers entwined with his ginger hair as though he were about to rip it from his head. He answered without nodding again.

"They left me here, tied and gagged me and left…without a word….without a reason…"

The boy's breath came hard and fast now, and his knuckles were turning white where they gripped his hair.

"There was no reason…they didn't explain anything…they shot him…there was _no reason_."

Watson tightened his hold, his own head tilted back to look blankly up at the ceiling, his tears running freely down his face. Would that I had some easy or acceptable way to express the rage and pain that roared within me.

"They killed him," the American whispered, "for no reason…and now he's gone."

His naturally light voice was rising towards hysteria, cracking as he leaned into Watson's embrace, shivering.

"Easy, lad." Watson said softly "Easy."

"Oh God," Haight whispered, horrified. "He's gone."

He let his head rest on Watson's shoulder and gripped my friend's coat. I watched in awkward, helpless grief as his shoulders began to shake with suppressed sobs, and occasional desperate gasps escaped him.

Watson lifted his gaze from the broken man and met my eyes with an almost pleading gaze, the question clear upon his countenance, begging me to give him some answer of hope.

Was there any chance…that Haight could be mistaken?

How to heaven I wished that that was indeed the case, but in all good conscience I could not permit myself to believe it, for the sake of all our disappointments. Even if Lachlan had survived the bullet-wounds, he had still been recovering from his other attack…broken ribs and now a fall down a sharp drop-off?...and the very storm that had come so close to killing Watson had only begun to set in at the time of his collapse.

I did not think I could verbally answer with the physical lump that had risen in my throat, and so I shook my head softly, watching with dread as Watson's face fell visibly.

Lachlan was dear to both of us; he had not only saved my life, he had more importantly saved Watson's…and a more honorable and honest man one would be hard put to find.

_**Watson**_

The finality that I saw in Holmes's expression was akin to the last nail being driven into the proverbial coffin, and the weight in my chest tripled.

I was not unacquainted with death; I had seen more than my share of it in the war and since then I had come to encounter it very often when working with Holmes on his cases, even the occasional acquaintance in Scotland Yard would meet with an ill fate…but since my early days I had been fairly lucky in not having encountered the death of a close friend (not counting Holmes's supposed death at the Reichenbach falls). Even my unhappy brother's demise had been very distant at the time.

And it was different, far different to know the person closely…and for it to be Lachlan…

I tightened my grip around the lad who leant against me, every quiver and wracking sob from his frame driving the terrible truth deeper and deeper into my mind. Tears of my own were pouring freely down my face, and after a moment's hesitation I did not try to stop them.

The passing of such a man deserved to be honored by a show of emotion, no matter the stiff, stolid claptrap of my upbringing. I had learnt better in Afghanistan when young boys and friends died, still under my care…without emotion, without grief, the passing was just that…_nothing_. Unhonoured and unremembered. I would not sully my memories of the good midshipman with false pride and stiff upper lip.

If it was this bad for me, who had only known Lachlan briefly, if closely, I could not begin to comprehend how much harder it was for the young American, who had been his near-constant companion over the last eight months…in numerous death-defying situations.

I held him for a while longer, feeling terribly inadequate while he shook, his body wracked with silent sobs, soaking the shoulder of my jacket. Then his violent grief was interrupted by a genuine shudder of cold and a moan as further feeling returned to his hands and feet.

He had been here for over a day, and had lost all feeling in his extremities, as well as suffering severe cramp in his limbs.

The cold and his own temperature were alarming; he was well into the first stage of hypothermia and he had been without food or water for all the time he'd been here. Aside from this all was the fact that he had been roughly handled by his kidnappers and sported several very impressive bruises.

He needed medical attention, and quickly; swiftly degenerating health would not help the shock.

With one hand I tugged my overcoat more tightly about his shoulders, trying and failing to ignore the pain of my still swollen hands as I did so.

"Holmes." I said softly, afraid that if I raised my voice any higher it would crack again. "We need…he needs to get out of here."

Holmes nodded absently, his black brows drawn together in visible distress as he stared at Haight. "One more question, Watson," he said, his voice carefully controlled and void of all the emotion that his face held.

Haight, with some effort, raised his head. "What?" he asked bluntly, his voice sounding very exhausted indeed.

"Do you think that you can remember the spot?" Holmes asked.

I watched as fresh pain flickered over his face, before fading into the blank weariness that was settling over him.

"No…and any tracks that existed are long gone. If there had been anything to follow I would already be following it."

Holmes grimaced slightly and swallowed again. He patted Haight's shoulder.

"All right, lad, Watson's right. We'd…we'd best get you to someplace warm. Can you walk?"

But the American was almost too far gone to answer this question; any inquiries concerning his own state of health must seem exceedingly trivial right now, meaningless…he wanted nothing more than to be left here, dead to the world, unable to summon up enthusiasm for living, as least for the moment.

It was an emotion with which I was familiar.

Had Lachlan been there he would have cuffed the lad across the head, cajoling him into getting a move on, and I'm sure that no matter what his condition the reporter would have followed him into the pit of Hades and back.

As it was, he had only us to encourage him, and though I had hoped we were on the way to becoming good friends we were hardly the same, and we all knew it.

"He should be able to if we help him, Holmes," I said, gently pulling one Haight's arms around my shoulder.

My friend moved at once, grateful for any sort of distraction, and took Haight's other arm and together we lifted him to his feet, eliciting several gasps and grunts of pain as his frozen leg muscles came to life again and no doubt tingled with the agony of renewed blood flow.

He gained his balance after a few seconds and we were able to walk him from the house out into the mid-afternoon light, what there was of it through the dense cloud-cover overhead.

I looked in consternation at the thick snow that lay before us and at the narrow path we had made in getting here.

Holmes noticed my look at once and slipping his shoulder out from under Haight's arm he moved ahead.

"Do you have him, Watson?"

I nodded.

"Good, I'll go on ahead, widen it a bit."

"Right." I adjusted my grip on the reporter. "Are you all right, Haight?"

"Fine," came the deadpan whisper, still low with exhaustion and abuse.

I swallowed down the anger and pity that rose in me. He needed a competent physician now, not a grieving friend…that would come later.

Holmes did an excellent job of stamping down the snow before us and I was able to steer Haight through the drifts, keeping him up when he continually stumbled and slipped with his precarious balance.

"Easy…go slowly, lad, there's no rush…just over here. That's right…"

I felt a brief flash of amusement as I comprehended my own words. It was not so much the words of Doctor to patient, as it was cab driver to a weary, skittish horse. I wondered if the American would be offended were he still fully aware?

I brushed this thought aside just as quickly, for now was not the time for triviality either, especially not that. I clamped down firmly on my emotions and continued in Holmes's wake, still steadying and speaking a string of reassuring phrases.

At last we made our trap again. Holmes helped me load the lad into the back and cover him with the blankets we had brought. I bent to attend to my patient, expecting my friend to take the reins, and when he did not I turned to him in puzzlement.

"Holmes?" I asked, as he stood looking back at the dilapidated house.

Holmes glanced at me, then back to the structure again.

"I want to examine the interior and the surrounding area, Watson…"

"Oh, no!" I hurried to head off this line of thought. "Holmes, we need to get him out of here. There's no time…"

"Watson, it's important…"

"More important than Haight's health? We can come back, Holmes."

My friend scowled fiercely now, his grief taking the form of anger directed at me. He turned on me, and glared down from his considerate height.

"We may be able to pick up the trail of the brutes who did this…we can find them, Watson. If we just…"

Without warning the pent-up emotion that had been building since our departure from Weissberg rose to a crescendo and I found myself throwing down my bag with a snap and climbing out of the trap to face Holmes, my blood boiling and my face hot. Not angry at him…but at the situation.

"He's dead, Holmes!" I shouted, feeling sick even as the words passed my lips. "He's dead, and there's nothing we can do…nothing we could do…"

"But Watson, there is something…"

"Later!" I cut him off. "Later, Holmes…it can all wait, the dead can wait! But Haight cannot…he needs attention and to leave this fiendish place as soon as can be…we put the living before the dead!"

I stopped, breathing heavily and meeting Holmes's fierce scowl with one of my own, feeling brutish and callous and sick as I did.

"He would agree with me," I said, more softly. "Do you really think he wants you to worry about his body before his best friend's life?"

Holmes, drawing deep breaths in through his flaring nostrils, his face set in a pained, resentful scowl, shot a quick look at Haight, who was watching us, before looking back to me.

"If you want to make it up then help me get him out of here. The last thing Lachlan would want would be for us to make a fuss over avenging his death when Haight is as risk…please, Holmes."

With an effort, Holmes turned his attention away from the house and climbed up to take the reins of the trap.

"You're, the _Doctor_." He growled the word out with vehemence and waited for me to climb in before turning our horse back onto the road and into the trees, while I continued to attend to the only partially-conscious reporter.

After a short time, Holmes looked back at us, his face composed once again, and with I thought might be an apology in his eyes, though he would never voice it.

"How is he?" he asked.

"All right," I answered shortly. "Nothing broken as I thought, not even a finger. He needs something when we get back to town, some hot broth followed by a decent meal. There is quite a bit of bruising but we've managed to avoid a severe case of hypothermia."

I raised my head and met Holmes's concerned grey eyes. "Thank you, Holmes."

My friend grunted and turned back around in his seat.

The remainder of the drive was spent in silence, and Haight slipped into a fitful sleep almost at once, and though I could see that Holmes would have wished him awake to see if he could identify the spot of our dear friend's demise, I could not justify waking the lad.

The dark and the storm would have made the landscape seem like a different world entirely, and in his present exhaustion he could not possibly be expected to remember the site. We would come back after he was rested and make a thorough search of the whole thing, I had no doubt, not with Holmes involved.

We made it back to the town without incident, and located an inn, taking Haight immediately into its warm depths and settling him into a room where a fire burnt steadily in the hearth, bathing the room in warmth.

Holmes stood at my shoulder as I eased the stained jacket and shirt off of Haight's shoulders, and he twitched in sympathy at the bruising around the American's chest and arms.

At the very least the fiends had taken some pleasure in battering him about…though I was still certain that nothing was broken, and a quick examination of the heart and lungs revealed no notable damage.

When the reporter's injuries were cleaned and dressed I made sure he was covered thoroughly and then, going to my bag, I drew out a mild sedative.

Haight looked at it in question but said nothing as I injected his arm.

"You need to rest, Haight," I said. "We'll be here to keep watch, just rest."

He nodded, not meeting my gaze, his eyes fixed dully on a spot on the wall. I turned to put my things away, and was stopped by a hand on my arm.

I hastened to bend over Haight and this time was met with his depthless, pain-filled eyes.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," he whispered, face alive with emotion once more, his eyes burning with tears once again. "I'm sorry…I should have done something…I'm sorry."

I gripped his arm. "You did what you could, Haight."

"Not enough." He shook his head. "Not enough, I should have done more…I should have gotten loose, warned him they were shooting, knocked them off balance…_something_."

"No one could possibly expect that you should have known how to react."

"If I hadn't pressed him into leaving in the first place…into going back to Vienna…he was still healing, he didn't want to leave the two of you to face your case alone. I pressed him into it, Holmes had to practically push him onto the train…if I hadn't…"

"Stop it, Haight. It was his choice and his alone. Lachlan was never one to let anyone bully him into anything…that was the reason he never rose in rank at sea…did he ever tell you that? He was too headstrong and intelligent to take mind-numbing orders for long. It was his own choice."

Haight closed his eyes, with a shuddering breath and turned gingerly onto his side, pulling out of my grasp.

"I'm sorry, Doctor…I'm so sorry. And I wish to heaven I had never seen you on that platform."

I gripped his shoulder, trying my feeble best to offer comfort despite the pain that had laced through me at those last words – not a rude reproach, but wishful thinking by a grieving man.

"Go to sleep, lad."

And a moment later he did, drifting into a deep, drug-induced slumber, his breaths deep and even, his face going slack and appearing all the younger for the bruises upon it.

Holmes came up beside me, a silent, steady comfort. Looking down at Lachlan's partner, his eyes were as soft as I had ever seen them and full of pity.

"Delaying it won't make it easier," he said. "It will be there when he awakes."

"I know…and I can only hope that when he does awaken he'll have the strength to face it."

Holmes put a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Watson," he said without any hint of his usual cynicism, and I could not help but think that maybe he was apologising for another, similar pain that he had caused a while ago…one that I had long since forgiven him for.

"So am I," I replied, thinking of the old hurt and its similarity to the new…of the dreadful weight that Haight would have to deal with upon awakening.

One that I was all too familiar with.


	36. Time Is Frozen

**My apologies for the delay, readers; I'm afraid I've dropped the ball lately with my writing due to my best friend's wedding this weekend and starting a new job. Life is a pain sometimes. **

**I am hoping to get back into my Snapshots series and back on the writing prompts, if anyone cares; it will just take a bit of time to get back into things. Thanks for your patience, and enjoy the chapter (if you can).**

* * *

_Time rushes by and yet time is __frozen__. Funny how we get so exact about time at the end of life and at its beginning._

_-Helen Prejean_

* * *

_**Watson**_

The sun was casting elongated, distorted shadows on the walls of the little room by the time Holmes returned that afternoon.

I heard the door shut behind me and footsteps that stopped momentarily, then started again more hesitantly, to where I stood in the window, watching the world go by below me as if nothing had happened, as if a good man and loyal friend had not been murdered out there only forty-eight hours before.

"Did you find…anything?" I asked distantly.

A long sigh, then silence. "Nothing. Which…could be grounds for hope…" he said hesitantly, but the chill in his voice belied the very idea. "The 'ravines' I could locate in several places along the road were not overly deep – possible to survive a fall, I suppose. But…"

"Possible to survive a gunshot wound, or a fall even with broken ribs, or a snowstorm," I responded bitterly, "but the likelihood of surviving all three is slim to none."

"I'm afraid so." How in the world could he have so much confounded control over his voice?

I envied the man for his detachment, his ability to mask his feeling and continue to go on living as though nothing had happened. I certainly could not. No matter how much I tried to keep my memory from bringing up scenes and pictures that were piercing my heart at their sight, I could not stop it.

I closed my eyes and took a shuddering breath, leaning my head against the cold windowpane for a moment. I was still attempting to process the fact that I would never see our midshipman again…

I felt Holmes's hand tighten firmly on my good shoulder, and he tugged gently on it. "You need to sit down, Watson," he said softly, no doubt able to feel my quivering despite all my efforts to be in complete control.

I nodded wordlessly and allowed myself to be guided by his strong arm into the chair I had vacated after dozing off and dreaming about the _Friesland_ and our…I still could barely wrap my mind around the word…_dead_ friend.

"How is he?" Holmes asked, leaning over the bed to look at Haight.

"He woke up for a few minutes about an hour ago, and I had him drink some broth," I replied wearily. "I'll have him try to eat something light tonight when he wakes again."

"Did he say anything more about the…incident?"

I swallowed hard and glanced up at my friend's worried eyes before dropping my gaze once more. "Not that will help us. I didn't think to ask him for descriptions of the men, Holmes, I'm sorry –"

He dismissed the matter with a wave of the hand. "I've informed the local police force, and they've put an official detective in charge of the matter, though he has half a dozen other cases on his plate at the moment. He's a competent enough fellow, and we went out with a search party…I was able to get the basic descriptions of the men from the house and some prints on the lee side of the structure that were sheltered from the storm…"

Holmes's voice droned on, describing the men to me and what he had been doing all afternoon, but I was not listening. My mind was back in London, all those months ago, the night Lachlan showed up at Baker Street with a half-dead Sherlock Holmes in his arms…back on the deck of the _Friesland_, holding me still while I coughed up what seemed like gallons of water after nearly drowning, his sound pounding on my back and calm voice the only tangible recollection I had of that first fifteen minutes…back on that tiny bunk in that tiny cabin, where he watched over me while Holmes tore the ship apart in search for Culverton Smith's accomplice…of his final salute in a last parting gesture of respect to the both of us…

I lowered my head into my shaking hands, feeling the grip on reality I had managed to hold while watching over Haight alone this afternoon start to slip away in the knowledge that Holmes would never think less of me for my weakness. Try as I might, I could not get the seaman's face out of my mind, those twinkling blue eyes were haunting me as sure as any spectre we had yet encountered.

The death of my wife over a year before had nearly devastated me, though her passing had been expected and, while not welcome, a slight relief to me for I could not bear to see her suffer as she had those last few months of her pain-filled existence. I had had time to grow used to the idea, though I was not ready for it. Losing Lachlan, while less painful than my wife's death, was so unexpected that the shock was nearly debilitating.

So absorbed was I in trying to regain my control that I did not notice that Holmes had stopped talking and had left the room – the next thing I consciously heard was the door shutting and then a clink to my right. A moment later a hand touched my arm gently, and I looked up to see Holmes offering me a steaming cup of coffee, fixed with milk as he knew I took it.

I took the drink in a trembling bandaged hand, and he patiently waited until I had steadied myself before letting go of the saucer. Then he sat in the other chair opposite and looked across at me.

"Watson, I…am sorry, but I need you to focus right now, old chap," he said with infinite gentleness.

I gulped down half the cup in one swallow, burning my mouth badly in the process, but I welcomed the pain as a draw away from the far worse internal one roiling below my outward attempt at calm. Then I swallowed again and nodded for him to continue.

"The local constabulary told me that they would continue to search until dark," he said quietly, "though they could not give me any hope that they would find anything. While not a regular occurrence, this has happened many times in this area in the winter and…" he trailed off with the slightest of tremors.

I sighed and finished my coffee, nodding with a numbness that now seemed all too familiar.

"Here, you'll probably need the energy tonight," said Holmes, taking the cup back from me and refilling it.

"Thank you. Holmes, do you…do you think there's any hope at all?" I asked desperately.

I saw him freeze with the milk pitcher in midair, closing his eyes and lowering his head in defeat.

"No," he whispered. "No, I do not. Were Lachlan still alive, the first thing he would have done would be to send a wire sometime in the last two days to us at the castle, asking for us to come and help find Haight here. I contacted the Count two hours ago, and there has been none. I'm afraid he really is…is gone. If only I had used whatever brains God has given me and foreseen this! I – I sent him to his _death_, Watson!"

At the misery-laden, helplessly angry words, I could almost literally feel my heart sink to the floor, and I put my head in my hands once more, trying desperately to keep under control – neither Holmes nor Haight had time or energy to deal with anyone's grief and guilt but their own.

I heard a loud clink as he slammed the cup down with suppressed rage, but I was too frantically engaged in trying to keep the grief I had shoved under a mask of professionalism in front of Haight still controlled; and I was afraid I was losing the battle. I was reeling from a mixture of grief and false hopes I had allowed myself to indulge in being dashed to the ground at last…I should have known better than to hope for a miracle; for weeks after Reichenbach I had hoped for one and was disappointed. I never did learn my lesson…

I shook with the effort of holding back the pent-up emotions that were twisting my insides into knots, wishing more than anything that we had never accepted this case, that I had never run into Haight back in Strasbourg…the lad's words echoed bitterly in my head and twisted the knife already in my heart. _I wish to heaven I had never seen you on that platform._

As I choked back a tear and dashed angrily at my burning eyes, I felt a strong but comforting hand upon my shoulder once more, squeezing it gently with unspoken sympathy.

"It's all right, dear fellow," he murmured, his brief fiery burst of anger gone now. "There is no shame in mourning, only in forgetting to."

"Where did you hear that?" I asked shakily, for it sounded so completely unlike his normal logic that it was almost incongruous.

"Tibet," he said softly, clasping my shoulder once more before resuming his seat opposite me.

I cleared my throat and downed the rest of the now lukewarm coffee, aware that my friend's haunted eyes were upon me the entire time, and then I turned back to him.

"Holmes, this was not your fault," I said directly, for now swallowing my grief in an effort to reassure the guilt-ridden detective. "You could not possibly have foreseen this, and you did not _send_ them; they _insisted_ upon leaving, if you will remember, against both our wishes."

My comrade's eyes darkened into a black-grey steel, filled with guilt and blind fury. Had Haight not been sleeping I believe he might have put his fist through the wall, so angry and hurt was he; more vulnerable than I had seen in many a year.

"I still should have foreseen this possibility, Watson," he whispered, his hands clenching into tight trembling fists. "Now, because of my stupidity, a good and innocent man has been…has been murdered…"

"Stop it!" I hissed, in a low voice so as to not wake the young reporter. "You are not to blame, Holmes. And – and Lachlan would not want you sitting here blaming yourself either. Do you hear me?"

My friend glared at me, or rather glared through me for his anger was not aimed in my direction, but then his face fell into a cold misery.

"Is this what you felt like, after you realised that note from Meiringen was a hoax? That you should have been there, that you were a fool not to have seen this eventuality?" he whispered, so low that I barely heard the words.

I swallowed hard twice before answering. "I…well…yes, Holmes." He averted his gaze from me, face flushing slightly. "But," I went on, more confidently, "your brother told me that I was not to blame, that there was nothing I could have done about the matter. And while it took quite a long time, eventually I accepted the truth of his words."

Holmes glanced up at me in surprise. "Mycroft?"

I nodded. "You are not to blame, Holmes. Neither I nor…nor Lachlan would ever blame you for not foreseeing what this fiend we are up against did."

Holmes passed a hand over his eyes and sighed, a long, shuddering breath. Then he looked back at me, and the corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest of smiles. He extended his hand without a word, and I clasped it firmly, holding the grip for a moment in an effort to steady both of us.

"Now, Holmes," I said with as stout a voice as I could muster. "How are you going to go about finding these men?"

_**Holmes**_

I once told Watson that work was the best antidote for sorrow, not too long ago in fact. Only a few hours ago I realized the flaw in my own statement. Work was not an antidote…not for grief and loss of this kind; it served only as a delay until time, the real healer, could pass by and leave the open wound as a scar that no matter how it faded would always ache.

Still…it was distraction, and I took refuge in the familiar routine of investigation probing the small abandoned house where Haight had been kept for the past thirty-six hours, as well as the surrounding area.

He had been all too right of course; any tracks that might have existed were long ago obliterated by the storm and other passing vehicles so that any attempts to discover where the incident of Lachlan's death had occurred were for naught.

_Never mind,_ I consoled myself, leaving the rest of the searchers and local police force on the road to continue the search; when I found the three who had done this they would help me locate the body. At the very least, Lachlan's remains would be taken care of; I would not allow him to remain lost for the remainder of the winter, only to be stumbled upon by a careless hunter and a curious hound later in the spring.

I shuddered with anguish at the thought, dashing the sudden images from my mind, recalled from past cases when some poor soul had been discovered in just such a manner, I had seen far too many of them, and Lachlan would not be one I would add to the list.

It was small consolation, but it was something, and the thought of the peace that it would give to Haight served to drive me further into investigation. Seeing a friend laid properly to rest did bring a certain peace.

An investigation of the building added little to my knowledge, as the men did not stay for long after depositing Haight there. There were indeed three of them and after my investigation I was able to give my descriptions, vague as they were (mere height, weight, and age) to the official forces…for all the good it would do.

Wet, tired, and considerably frustrated by my lack of results, I had returned to the inn to find Haight still in an exhausted sleep, and Watson, wracked with grief, gallantly still watching over him, and it galled me all the more that I had no fresh news to give him that would be of any comfort.

When he asked me what I intended to do next I found myself at a sudden loss.

There was precious little left to investigate, no one left to interview besides Haight himself, and Watson had made it abundantly clear that he should not be pressed until he had had a decent rest.

Well no…not quite; there was still the station master and the man who had rented out his wagon to the kidnappers. I had done a very scanty job of investigating those areas in my eagerness to locate Haight and Lachlan.

"I will go to the station," I said as last to my friend, who was gazing wearily at the burning fire in the hearth, the dancing flames reflecting over his lined face. "They may know something. At the very least we might find out if the three have left the town yet; if they rented a wagon we can get their names."

Watson looked up with one of his eager ideas, though it failed to light his face as it usually did. "Do you think it's likely that they remained here?"

I shook my head. "This was a throw-together job, Watson, just like everything else we've encountered so far. Well executed, I admit, just like all the others, but very spur of the moment. I doubt that whoever is behind this has even been in close contact with these thugs; blackmailing is an ugly business and the less that are involved the safer and cleaner it is. And the accomplices would be fools to hang around after their work was completed."

Watson frowned. "Completed…but surely they were coming back for…"

"They left Haight on purpose, as a warning, or cruel jest, Watson," I said gently as I could. "A warning to me. Think, my dear fellow – he was left in a house that according to local legend is _haunted_. Who else could that warning be for than for us? I do not think that they originally intended to kill Lachlan; perhaps they intended both of them to be a warning, perhaps they intended to use them as leverage against us. Then when Lachlan tried to escape and was…was killed, they decided to merely use them for a warning to us."

My poor friend's face blanched even whiter, looking as if he were going to be ill.

"These three men's mission was to stop the two of them from reaching Vienna and contributing to our investigation, and this they accomplished. We already know our opponent is an exceedingly confident man, and that he is not afraid to take risks merely for theatrical effect. He _meant_ us to find Haight, however long it took us…and possibly Lachlan as well, had he not tried to escape. If his death was not intended then its likely that the kidnappers had even greater motive to leave as soon as possible."

I watched as Watson's usually kind face, now even more vulnerable with grief, hardened into a mask of disgust and rage that he reserved for very few people.

"He's mocking us then…you were right. It's more distraction; he enjoys taunting us and is so sure of himself that he believes himself untouchable."

"Exactly," I growled. "And for that same reason he does not comprehend the consequences of dealing so carelessly with human lives…nor does he understand the import of challenging _me_. It seems that we have at last found a villain who is not well read in your excellent accounts, Watson."

I got only a semblance of a smile for this comment, though that was to be expected, I doubted that either of us would be in jesting moods for quite some time.

"How are we to get at him, then? If he is so confident he cannot be touched that he leaves so much to chance rather than taking obvious precautions."

I conjured up a reassuring smile from somewhere in my acting abilities and clapped Watson on the shoulder briefly. "That will be his downfall, Watson; with such self-assurance coloring his vision he cannot possibly foresee the full consequences of his actions. We will have him, my friend, and he will pay for every mishap and thrill of terror that we have experienced so far."

I felt my voice catch in my throat suddenly and met Watson's eyes, assured by his look that he was thinking the same thing as I.

"And for Lachlan," he whispered softly.

I swallowed the lump and nodded, getting to my feet. "And for Lachlan…he is responsible for far too much. One man alone should not be able to do so much damage, and he shall be repaid for it."

I took Watson's empty coffee mug from his hands and paused, realizing that one of those mishaps had been fairly recent, though it felt like an age ago now.

"How are your hands?"

Watson blinked, surprised by the question, then looked down at his bandaged appendages to ascertain for himself.

"More flexible," he said, "though still quite painful…I hadn't really noticed."

I nodded. "No surprise there, old fellow, you've hardly had the time to think, and there is still much to do before we rest. Will you be all right here with Haight while I go to the station?"

Watson, staunch as ever, nodded, though still he did not smile. "We'll be fine, Holmes. Go and do what you need to."

He turned his attention back to the fire, his grief once again in place on his face and I knew that it would be a while before I saw him smile properly again. He was far more familiar with emotion than I, and so Lachlan's death had hit him that much harder. I wished that he could accompany me on this part of the investigation…to find some distraction, but Haight needed him here; not only because of his role as a physician, but also that out of the two of us he was far more adept at comforting a person than I.

I sighed and went to the door, knowing that any words I could give would be far from adequate. My only role now lay in action.

"Keep your revolver with you," I said softly. "I'll be back shortly."

Watson looked at me once again with a frown.

"Revolver? Holmes I thought you said that it would be absurd to think they are still here. Do you really believe there is danger so soon after…"

He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence and I watched him worriedly.

"After all that has happened, Watson, I am unwilling to leave anything to chance…and ready to believe almost anything. I am more than sorry for Lachlan's death, but I would be even sorrier should a similar fate befall you. You are responsible for both Haight's and your safety, so keep your revolver and do not be timid with it."

My Boswell's brows drew together with sharp concern; no doubt he thought I was overreacting, much he supposed that first night just before we departed to the Continent to flee the grasp of Moriarty.

Blazes…one could get exceedingly weary of the feeling of a bullet aimed constantly at one's back.

Watson trusted me, however, and no matter how morbid he found my caution to be he nodded soberly and even seemed to pick up some of my fear for he added a caution of his own.

"Be careful, Holmes. If you are not back in two hours I'm coming after you."

I smiled grimly.

"I'll be back shortly," I repeated and left the rooms, closing the door behind me not long after I had entered it.

It had grown dark by that time, and the moon illuminated more of the early evening than the sinking sun did. With the darkness came the cold and I saw fit to pull the collar of my coat up higher around my neck for warmth. It was a simple matter to call a cab for the station, for that really was the only location that anyone would be headed at that time of night.

I was both grateful and uneasy of the crowd when I arrived, for it saved me from having to traverse an empty platform filled with shadows.

But a killer could just as easily secrete himself in such a crowd.

I made my way to the office that we had visited before and, pushing my way past the line of ticket buyers, chose to remain ignorant of their protests in mainly German but also numerous other tongues.

Alerted by the noise, the attendant raised his head from the papers he had been consulting. I felt another stab of frustration.

It was not the same man from before. Of course, what an imbecile I was.

"What can I assist you with?" the attendant questioned me in brusque German with a snap of formality that bordered on the impolite.

Given this and my own impatience I addressed him not in German but in English. I had little time to waste on their blasted language.

"Yes, I am looking for Herr Baucher? He worked at this stall earlier today."

The attendant smirked, realizing my difficulty, and said, "I am sorry, _mein Herr_, his shift ended some time ago, he has gone home."

"Can you tell me where I might find him?"

The man smirked, making his craggy face even more disreputable than it was before.

"At this time of day, _mein Herr_, who is to say?"

"Where does he live?" I asked, my own voice going thin with frustration.

"I cannot give you that information."

With a shuddering sigh I managed to suppress my anger, and I leaned forward on the counter, allowing the full force of my gaze to fall on the man.

I was gratified when he leaned back somewhat with a nervous glance.

"I need to question Herr Baucher in connection with a _murder_, sir, and it is most important that I get in touch with him…it would be far more beneficial to you if you cooperate and help me to get in touch with him."

The man sidled nervously and broke his eyes away from my face.

"It is true what I tell you, I cannot give you address where he lives…but he will be here tomorrow, same shift as before. Now, _mein Herr_, you are holding the line."

I sighed and stepped aside, recognizing a dead end when I saw one. I would just have to return tomorrow. A quick glance at my pocket-watch told me that I had just enough time to go to the stables where we had rented the hack.

Hopefully my search would yield more results there.

I cast wary glances about me for a moment for any signs of someone stalking my movements, spectral or material. There had been far too many of both elements already in this case for my taste.

But now, a distinctly human agency had just murdered a man who not only did I consider one of my few (very few) friends, but one I owed a debt to for what he had done for Watson in our past. For both of them, failure was not an option for me now.

I tugged my coat up again against both the external and internal chill and strode off into the crowd.


	37. The Kind of Sound a Ghost Makes

_"__Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a __ghost__ makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving.__"_

_- Mark Twain_

* * *

_**Watson**_

For a period of time, the length of which I paid no attention to, I remained in that small room, occasionally stoking the fire and more occasionally pacing up and down, wishing that I had been able to go with Holmes. Waiting has never been a pastime I enjoy, and being alone with my thoughts ranked even higher on that list of unpleasantness at the moment…

…especially with thoughts such as these, dark and troubled and flooded by that constant, gnawing undercurrent of grief and loss. I was more numb than anything else by this point, the shock having worn off and left a sort of deadness in its place, just an emptiness that I was more than familiar with by now. I slumped down again into the hard chair, resting my chin in my hand as I looked down at the sleeping form of the seaman's dearest friend.

I did not relish waking the lad or dealing with him once he had woken and the realisation came flooding back, but evidently the same cruel hand of Fate that had dealt this deadly blow was at work again, for Haight stirred uneasily, moving his head, his brows furrowing deeply. After a few moments, during which I refrained from waking him from whatever he was dreaming about because I was hoping he would remain asleep, the young reporter suddenly started, his hands jerking slightly under the blankets. He looked about wildly, breathing very rapidly and rubbing his eyes.

"Easy, Haight," I murmured softly, laying a hand on the young fellow's shoulder with a reassuring grip.

"What – oh, Doctor," he gasped in relief, slumping back to the pillow. "I was dreaming…" he trailed off suddenly, his face blanching as quickly as it had coloured. "Oh, good Lord!"

The blankness on the reporter's face suddenly melted into a grief-stricken hopelessness, as I could almost visibly see his memory churning up what had occurred last. I watched, helpless, as Haight turned over and hid his eyes in the pillow, his whole frame shaking with the knowledge that he had finally woken up and had to face the reality of going on alone now.

I flinched instinctively, knowing all too well what it felt like to realise life actually dared to go on despite a heartbreak; and that despite not wanting to ever do anything again, one had to get back into the routine of said life, for it stopped for no one.

"I'm…I'm so sorry, lad," I said faintly, keeping a steadying hand on the reporter's shoulder as he shook with smothered emotion. "It…will not always be so painful…someday you will be able to –"

"How in blazes would you know what I feel like or what I'll do, Doctor?" Haight nearly shouted, the words half-choking in his throat as he whipped over to glare at my saddened face, though his anger not actually aimed at me.

When I merely raised an eyebrow, the blind rage drained from his face, leaving it even paler than before.

"Yes, of course you know…I'm s-sorry, Doctor, that was a thoughtless thing to say…"

"Nonsense, Haight," I said soothingly. "You _must_ deal with this, and if lashing out is your method of releasing your grief then by all means please do it, you'll feel better after you do. Not all right, for you may not feel right again for months; but better."

The young fellow took a shuddering breath and scrubbed angrily at his face with his sleeve before lurching upright to sit against the bedstead, looking about him and trying to control the small hiccoughs of grief that still ran through his trembling form.

"Where's Mr. Holmes?"

"He's been out since we came to this inn, looking for those men," I said softly.

"Have they – have they found – the – the body yet?" Haight gasped through stammering lips.

I shook my head wordlessly, and his face fell in misery.

"We can't just leave him out there, we have to – to find –"

"I know, I know, my boy," I said calmly, patting the young fellow's arm with gentleness and at the same time inspecting the bandages round his wrist; apparently perfectly sound still. Good. "Holmes has every available policeman in this hamlet out searching, and he said we will not leave this town until we find him. That much we can do."

Haight nodded numbly, trying to whisper a small thank-you which I shushed. "I need you to try to eat something now, Haight," I said kindly.

"I'm not hungry, Doctor, if it's all the same to you."

"It is _not_ all the same, Haight. You are going to eat something, or I will not let you up out of that bed when Holmes comes back with news about those men," I informed the American sternly.

One thing the American had in common with his late colleague was that confounded mulish stubbornness. It took me a good fifteen minutes to convince him that I was in dead earnest about not letting him up, another ten to convince him to eat something, and another hour to actually get some passable soup, crackers, and vegetables sent up from the mediocre kitchen the inn sported.

Under my insistence and watchful eye, the young fellow managed to choke down an acceptable amount of food, and I finally gave in to his plea to be allowed to stop. I had no desire to force him into any more discomfort, but nor would I let him collapse from malnutrition or weakness.

Were Lachlan still alive, I had no doubt he would have shaken some sense into the reporter. Since he was not, and there was no way in heaven or earth I could ever take his place – that _anyone_ could – with Haight, I had to resort to gentle pleading and firm persuasion.

Not that either of those was doing the poor American much good. I watched with a deep sinking feeling of helplessness as Haight pushed his food away with a deep swallow, clenching his jaw as he looked up at me.

"What am I going to do, Doctor?" he whispered brokenly, putting his head in his hands. "Where am I going to go, what – what am I supposed to do now?"

I closed my eyes for a moment in silent sympathy, wishing I knew what to tell the young man that would ease the pain – but I knew better than he did that nothing really would ease it, not for a long, long period of time. Well I remembered the harshness of returning to a London that still expected my medical practice to go on as usual and the rest of my life to proceed as if I had not left part of my heart in a waterfall in Switzerland.

I had, I was still slightly ashamed of the fact to this day, I had cracked at last, falling ill under the strain. I refused to allow that to happen to Haight, for his sake as well as for all of us; Lachlan would want me to make sure the reporter was well taken care of, and I would do it. My own grief could wait.

I was about to offer some words of sympathy (heaven knew exactly what, but I was going to try), when the door was suddenly flung open and Holmes stumbled into the room, shedding his snow-soaked overcoat as he went straight to the fire and began to blow on his hands.

His eyes met mine for a moment, but I let my gaze drop in despondency, glancing back to Haight who had not moved from his former position to even look up at my friend.

"What news?" I asked wearily.

"We have our men."

"What?!" Haight's head shot up at that, his tear-filled brown eyes flashing. "You have them?"

"One of them, at any rate," my friend said calmly, pouring himself a drink from the decanter on the table. "By all accounts, the two men who accosted you on the train were not natives to this area; in these unique little hamlets everyone knows everyone, and no one appears to know those two."

"But the man they met at the station?" I asked eagerly.

Holmes's eyes smiled slightly at me. "I have him, for he was evidently a somewhat local man, living outside of town and only rarely stopping by, which is why it took me so long to find him in my search. After three hours of wild-goose chases, red herrings, and a dozen uncooperative natives of the area, I finally have the man's name, his address, and I've already ascertained that he is residing within the house's walls at this moment."

Haight snarled something and then bolted from the table with an energy that I stood astounded at, going to the washbasin and splashing his face, then fumbling for a towel and his jacket.

"Unless you fear for his health, let him, Watson," Holmes said softly, watching the reporter's near-frenzied movements.

I nodded with a small sigh and felt his hand upon my shoulder. "Watson," he said in a suddenly low voice close to my ear. "There is something about this that I do not like."

"It is still too easy, isn't it?" I returned softly.

"Quite. Surely this man, Albert Fleischer by name, would realise how easily he could be traced. It is almost as if…"

"As if he was _supposed_ to be traced," I replied slowly.

"Precisely. This could be a very simple trap for all of us," he whispered as Haight finished and started toward us, stopping at the bedside table on the way.

"No, Haight," Holmes said sharply, "I should much prefer that the Doctor carry the firearm."

The young reporter's face flushed angrily. "His hands are injured, and besides those murdering dogs took mine. I'm every bit as good a shot."

"But I do not trust you not to overstep the role of reporter into that of executioner, Mr. Haight," Holmes stated coolly. "Hand over that gun, if you please."

For a moment, during which I could almost hear the tiny slaps of snowflakes upon the window in the chilly silence, Haight glared at my friend with an almost savage ferocity. Then I stepped forward slowly and held out my hand. And with a slight curse, the reporter reluctantly relinquished his hold on my revolver.

"You are a brave man, Haight, and a good and loyal one. Do nothing now that will mar the reputation you and your friend have done much to uphold," Holmes said softly, clapping the young fellow on the back as we left the room.

Holmes had kept the trap we had rented for the rest of the night, and we were soon rattling away through the gloom, down the brick streets and snowy buildings. The snow was falling softly and in large fluffy flakes that automatically made one think of Christmas Day in London and all that went with it…until one remembered that a friend would never again see an English Christmas.

I shivered, and Holmes shot me a questioning look before continuing in his explanation of how he had finally tracked the man down, first through the description given by the wagon rental boy and then through a myriad of merchants and public houses until he had struck a lucky break at a pub, where the local gossip said that one of the outlying farmers had suddenly come into a deal of money and no one knew how.

"From there, it was the work of less than an hour to ascertain where the man lived and that he is there, apparently alone, right now," Holmes said, flicking the reins to move the horse onward.

"Should we not notify the police?" I asked.

"After we talk with the man. It will take that slow bungling force at least another hour to get a warrant out, and we have not the time to waste on such things if we are to track down the others," Holmes snapped, and despite my qualms about bursting into things without official backup I acquiesced; argument would have prevailed nothing against both him and Haight, anyway.

The address in question was a rambling farmhouse, a one-story squat edifice sitting in the midst of a stand of evergreens and surrounded out back by fields of snowy white, dotted with occasional bushes. Although clean enough, the place was rather shabby and obviously had seen much better days; I could see why the owner suddenly coming into money would certainly attract attention in the village.

"I thought you said he was in there," Haight whispered eagerly over my shoulder as we stood in the snowy trees, peering at the dark house.

"So he was an hour ago," Holmes replied, frowning deeply, "and although dark it is not really late enough for the man to be abed."

"I don't like it," I breathed, not seeing a single light or hearing a single sound from the house ahead.

"Nor do I, but we are not going to simply stand here and freeze. Follow me, and Haight, keep quiet and make no moves that I do not tell you to, understand?"

The American muttered something under his breath but obediently followed me as I followed Holmes up to the wooden porch, which creaked and groaned like a ghostly moan itself as we stepped upon the rotting boards.

I stiffened and felt Holmes freeze as well, for suddenly in one of the side windows a light had been lit, sending a warm beam of glowing yellow out into the darkness of the winter night.

"Now what, we just knock on the door and say, 'By the way, sir, we'd like to ask you if you murdered my best friend'?" Haight snapped, his voice taut with suppressed anger and emotion.

Holmes and I both winced at the young fellow's choice of words, but before either of us could answer the light was extinguished as swiftly as if it had been suddenly blown out.

"He probably heard you, Haight," Holmes hissed in irritation.

"Now what?" I asked patiently, trying to smooth over the ruffled feathers.

"I shall go in first, Haight following, and you stand by the door with the revolver, Watson, to prevent his escaping us. Do not argue with me, either of you – this is no time to stick at scruples!"

I bit back another protest as Holmes tried the doorknob. "It's unlocked," he whispered, turning a puzzled glance back to me.

"I've never seen a situation that spelled _trap_ like this one," I muttered, holding the pistol as tightly as I could in my bandaged hands.

"Nor have I, but it's our only lead and I refuse to wait until morning. Now for it. Ready, Haight?"

"Right behind you, Mr. Holmes. But remember, this Fleischer fella is _mine_," Haight snarled, his hands clenching into balled fists.

My friend opened the door and stepped warily into the dim room. From behind him and the reporter, I could barely see articles of furniture scattered round the room and a ghostly white light from the moonlit windows the only illumination within.

Holmes advanced a few paces, looking cautiously round him for signs of a trap, and Haight walked to the side, peering at the layer of dust upon the table.

The detective was about to call for Fleischer to show himself when suddenly a long dark shadow loomed over him.

Before I could call out, I heard his startled cry as a hulking figure dropped on him, landing a sound blow to his back as they began to grapple on the floor.

For a few seconds they fought, in a scuffle far too furious for me to aim my revolver. Haight started forward and I began to search for a lamp when I was arrested in my plans by a sudden voice.

"Stop!"

Holmes's somewhat breathless voice rang through the room at its most imperious pitch, and due to its remarkable, commanding quality there was almost instant calm, and we all crouched in the darkness uneasily.

Fleischer's gasping breaths were the only sound that followed and after a moment's hesitation to regain my own breath I got to my feet.

"Holmes…what the blazes is going on?" I asked, but my friend did not respond, as though he himself were struck dumb. In the silence that followed, I was able to vaguely make him out, climbing off his attacker and settling back.

His attacker lay there to get his breath a moment and then very slowly sat up with a grunt, propping himself up on his left arm.

He was breathing heavily as well, and not very deeply, his breaths quick and shallow as if…as if…

An impossibility…a horribly wonderful impossibility crept into my mind and I swore softly.

"Watson," said Holmes in a faint voice. "The lamp…"

I couldn't, I was frozen to the spot, my eyes locked on the shadowy figure.

Haight brushed past me, took two steps, and then stopped, frozen just as I was.

At last the shadowed figure broke the silence, shifting with another slightly pained grunt and he gasped out quietly.

"The least you can do after knockin' a man down, Holmes…is to offer him a hand up again."

The familiar voice was enough to send me stumbling to the lamp at once and I lit it with an unsteady hand just as Holmes finished complying with his attacker's request, helping him to his feet.

I do not think that any evidence, not even his voice, would have convinced me as the sight of him did, standing quite erect, his face flushed from the fight, his eyes alight, leaning slightly on Holmes and holding his ribs with his good arm. A far cry from the lifeless individual I had thought him to be for the last day and a half.

William Lachlan was _not_ dead, and the freely running blood from his split lip attested to that fact.

He blinked for a moment in the sudden light, spotted me with a rueful grin and then his gaze fell on Haight, and it cleared into utter relief.

The midshipman let forth a string of expletives that I had feared I would never hear again and pulled away from Holmes to approach his friend. I watched in an astonishment so complete that I could not think to move or even breathe. I felt that it could not be real, and I was loathe to move and dispel it, to break the spell, banishing the amazed joy that flooded me.

"Renie…thank heaven, lad…"

Haight had stood rooted to the spot throughout this display, white as a sheet and gaping at the man whose death he'd witnessed…at this ghost of his friend who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

Lachlan noticed his look and his blonde brows drew together in concern; he drew closer, his good hand outstretched to grip the American's shoulder.

"Are you all right, Renie? You look like you've seen a…"

The blow came suddenly and without warning, and my reaction to it was far too slow to even catch it.

One moment Lachlan was upright and looking at his friend with tender concern, the next instant he was seated on the ground, clutching his face.

I shouted and hurried at once to help him, realizing belatedly that the blow had come from Haight and that the lad was red with indignation. He moved faster than I, however, and in an instant he was kneeling beside the very puzzled seaman, who looked at him with a slightly dazed gaze, his hand covering his nose, from which leaked a stream of wonderfully, bright red blood.

Haight was quivering, his eyes bright with tears and his teeth set in a snarl of what I could only describe to be rage. I looked to Holmes, who was watching the exchange with raised brows…he had not made any move to intervene and even now, catching my look, he shook his head, his thin lips twitching.

Haight reached out and gripped Lachlan's shoulders tightly giving him a firm shake.

"You were dead! You're dead! I saw you die!"

Lachlan blinked at him a few times, squinting because of the damage to his nose, and in a muffled, subdued voice he said.

"I hate to disappoint, lad…" he brought his hand away from his face, revealing that while his nose was not broken it had suffered a solid blow. "…But I think this proves otherwise."

Haight was shaking in earnest now, the color fading from his face once again to leave it almost sheet-white, and tears streamed freely from his eyes.

He did not loosen his grip on his friend but rather squeezed his arms as though to reassure himself of their solidity. He looked over the still-puzzled Lachlan's face then shook him again.

"You idiot…you danged idiot…"

It just then reminded me of another similar occurrence and I sent a look towards Holmes, who had suddenly found an interest in a fading picture upon the wall. When I continued to glare at him he looked up with a sheepish grin and stepped closer to stand by me, resting his elbow casually on my good shoulder as we watched our two friends' unbelievable reunion.

"I must admit, Watson…I have often wondered why you refrained from striking me in a similar manner. You would have been greatly justified."

I stifled a laugh, too overcome with happiness and relief to allow any sense of grudge. "I didn't want to hurt my hand - your skull's too thick."

He scoffed, feigning offense, and then smiled at the two before us, Lachlan gingerly holding his nose and Haight babbling almost incoherently and swearing worse than the sailor himself.

At last the American seemed to wear himself down and Lachlan managed to quiet him, sitting up more fully.

"Dead?" he asked, his brows furrowing. "What do you mean, lad?"

Sudden anxiety struck me as I remembered Haight's description of the night's events. What further damage had been done to his injuries already? And what new ones had he sustained?

I interrupted their reunion and knelt beside them, belatedly observing that Lachlan's sling was missing, and that he sported one or two new bruises on his face.

"What do you mean, 'what do you mean?'!" Haight gasped indignantly. "I saw you get hit! With my own two eyes! And then you fell down into the ravine and you were as still as a corpse…there was a storm picking up! I thought…"

Lachlan's eyes grew stormy grey with concern and he paled slightly. "You saw?"

"They made me look."

Lachlan cursed lightly and sighed, raising his arm automatically to allow me to check his ribs.

"Perhaps since you are obviously not dead, Lachlan," Holmes interrupted, handing the handkerchief to the seaman, "you would be kind enough to tell us exactly how you _did_ survive?"

Lachlan frowned, his puzzlement replaced with sudden understanding. "You _all_ thought I was dead…blazes…I didn't mean…"

He looked round as though desperate for forgiveness, his gaze lingering especially on Haight.

"_What happened?_" the reporter asked, under some control now though he still held Lachlan's shoulder.

"I was shot," the seaman said, "but not badly. I fell down the bank, lost my breath and maybe my consciousness for a few minutes because of these blasted ribs, and when I pulled myself out of the ditch you were gone. I had no choice but to make my way back the way we'd come."

"What about the second shot?!" Haight demanded sharply, looking to me as I finished my examination.

I tried to smile reassuringly. "There's not much new trauma to the ribs, Lachlan; you're lucky, I told you the rest would do you good and if you get a bit more the swelling shoulde go down again. Your arm seems all right, the cast is holding nicely, though I'll need to get you another sling. And though there is some bruising the only other injury you seem to have sustained is a small graze on your leg."

I motioned with some distaste at the very crude bandage that the midshipman had fashioned out of who knew what.

"You are in need of a fresh change of clothing, some rest and minor medical treatment…not too bad for a dead man."

Haight let out a long sigh and the rest of the tension left his thin frame. "You saw the second shot."

Lachlan nodded, reaching up to grip the American's shoulder. "I saw the lubber's rifle, and tried to duck to avoid, but I went too far and rolled off the edge…Renie…I'm sorry…I didn't know that you didn't realize. I would never have left only…Blazes, boy, I'm sorry."

He took the handkerchief from his nose which had finally ceased to bleed.

"Guess I deserve this after all."

Haight smiled shakily and with all the impulsiveness of his countrymen pulled the seaman into a sudden hug, making him colour slightly, and myself to laugh with relief more than anything else.

Holmes stood by watching the exchange with a small, satisfied smirk, aloof but no doubt feeling the same relief as Haight and myself though he naturally would not show it.

He waited until Lachlan had managed to push the American off of him and then spoke, nodding toward the door of the bedroom which lay ajar.

"I trust, Lachlan, that you were here for the same purpose as we…did you manage to find Fleischer?"

Lachlan smiled and accepted Haight's arm, climbing slowly to his feet.

"Aye, Holmes," he said with a predatorial glint that I had often seen in my own friend's eyes. "We have him…and yer welcome to question what I've left of him."

* * *

_-smirk- Mkay, admit it, how many of you thought we really killed him? Didn't think so..._


	38. Ghosts May Always Be With Us

_Ghosts__, we hope, may be always with us - that is, never too far out of the reach of fancy._

_-Elizabeth Bowen_

* * *

_**Watson**_

Holmes raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What's _left_ of him?" he echoed dubiously.

"He wouldn't see fit to tell me where they'd dumped this young blighter here," Lachlan declared coolly, indicating the young reporter on whose shoulder he was leaning rather heavily.

"Oh, dear. Watson, come, I believe you'll be needed…"

Holmes's voice floated over his shoulder as he lit a candle and then moved back toward the bedroom Lachlan indicated. As I followed, snatches of heated conversation echoed behind me in the rather dank hall.

"Where the devil have you _been_ for two days, anyway?"

"Out cold for a few hours at first, then when the storm started I barely made it to a farmhouse to wait it out. Then it took a while to pick up this blackguard's trail."

"Why the heck didn't you wire Holmes?"

"I lost my pocketbook in the fall, lad, and besides I was more concerned with tracking you down!"

"At least then they would have been able to tell me you weren't dead!"

"I can't believe you'd given up all hope, falling for that."

"Well pardon me for a natural conclusion! Grief does stuff to a man's mind, you know!"

"Gentlemen," Holmes's amused voice came out of the candle-lit darkness. "Why don't you take this outside and settle it like your Wild West friends are so fond of, Mr. Haight? And if not, please at least drop to a normal tone of voice."

Haight cursed under his breath, and Lachlan's dry chuckle broke the surprised silence.

"Is this the room?" Holmes asked, hand on the knob.

"Aye. Left him trussed up and waitin' nicely for us."

I heard Haight humph something that sounded suspiciously like a rather base American euphemism, and I could barely repress the relieved laughter from spilling out of my grinning mouth.

As Holmes slowly swung open the squeaking door, there was dead, tense silence for a few moments, broken only by the winter wind outside. Then…

"I thig you broke my dose, Renie."

Holmes's shout of reactive laughter echoed in the room, and as he lit a lamp to send a warm glow about us, I saw Lachlan and Haight both grinning at the unusually explosive outburst from the cool detective – obviously, he was as happy as the rest of us were to see our party complete once more.

However, when Holmes's gaze fell upon a figure tied to the chair across the room, struggling furiously and futilely against the sailor's knots, the humour left his face to be replaced by grim determined purpose. He strode over and removed the towel that had been hastily stuffed into the man's mouth, revealing a scowling countenance and a rather nasty-looking bruise on the man's right cheekbone.

"Mr. Albert Fleischer, I presume," Holmes snapped in English for the benefit of our friends.

The fellow's beady eyes glared daggers at my friend. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

"Quite so. You have, I believe, already made the acquaintance of Mr. Lachlan and Mr. Haight."

"That's him," Haight gasped. "The one with the rifle…"

I glanced at the reporter, and saw that he was shaking slightly, either from shock or anger and probably both, combined with barely having eaten anything in two days. Lachlan's gaze met mine quizzically, and when I nodded pointedly to the American he glanced at the lad's bloodless face and immediately, worriedly, took his weight off the young fellow's shoulder, leaving his hand there for support.

"Eyewitness testimony, Fleischer. You'll be lucky to get twenty years for abduction and attempted murder, probably more," Holmes spat cheerfully.

Fleischer swore harshly and fluently in German, struggling against the knots the sailor had made in the bell-rope he'd tied the fellow to the chair with.

"However, you probably could get several years knocked off that if you were to tell us where your two conspirators are. Odd, don't you think, that they left you to take the consequences for this? Do you know how perfectly and childishly easy it was to trace you, Fleischer?" Holmes asked pointedly.

The man's flushed face paled suddenly with that realisation.

"It wasn't supposed to be attempted murder, we just got carried away," the man protested, also in English, ducking a ferocious glare from an incensed American. "He didn't want us to actually kill them, just shake them up a bit."

"Who didn't want you to?" Holmes demanded eagerly.

"The fellow who hired us," Fleischer replied coyly, the colour returning to his face as he realised he held a trump card against our, so far, rather weak hand.

"Hobart Strauss," Holmes shot at the man abruptly.

Fleischer blanched suddenly but shook his head firmly a moment later. I for one did not believe his denial.

"He's lying, Holmes. It has to be Strauss," Lachlan snapped, "else why go to all this trouble to prevent us from gettin' to Vienna?"

"I agree that that makes the most sense…but Strauss has no motive to break off the marriage, which is the root of the matter," Holmes muttered, glancing at me. I shrugged helplessly, as much at a loss to explain the discrepancies in the affair as he was.

"Fleischer, are you really willing to serve a full term as an abductor and attempted murderer without taking your two friends down with you?" Holmes demanded.

Fleischer smirked complacently, his composure restored now. "The people who hired us, Holmes, have friends and connections you have no idea of. And money, as well. I won't be in prison for long, rest assured."

"Shall I try to convince him, Holmes?" Lachlan asked, his fist clenching.

"I think I have that privilege," Haight snapped, taking a step forward.

"Stop it, both of you," Holmes said curtly, whirling on all of us. "The man is obviously not going to be of any further help to us. Haight?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"As the Doctor is still recovering slightly, would you mind to give me a hand with this gentleman. Lachlan, take a look round to see if you can find any correspondence or such from Strauss or anyone else."

"Already did, Holmes – I was doing it when this bloke came in from the barn out there," Lachlan offered. "Not much, but there's an unsigned note postmarked Weissberg and another from Vienna. I have 'em here in my pocket."

"That proves nothing, though," I muttered in dismay.

"No, but it gives us a starting point, and upon closer examination of the missives I might be able to deduce more. For now, it is high time we got the local police in from searching for a body that cannot be found and take this man into custody. Haight, if you would be so kind?"

The reporter reluctantly left his friend's side only after Lachlan squeezed his shoulder and pushed him gently toward Holmes. Then the seaman turned to me.

"Recovering, Doctor? Don't tell me as soon as we left, you got yourself in another mess!"

"I'm afraid so, Lachlan," I said ruefully, keeping my revolver trained on the two men as they untied Fleischer. "I got chased by that ghostly horseman and caught out in a snowstorm. Slight frostbite -" I indicated my bandaged hands, "and did some damage to my bad shoulder. Other than that, nothing serious."

"By the Lord Harry, Doctor, I do think you need to be under a constant twenty-four hour guard!"

"No need, Holmes came after me," I said softly.

"Always does, doesn't he?" Lachlan replied with a smile.

Holmes and Haight yanked the abductor to his feet and secured his hands behind him, though Fleischer had apparently given up attempting to struggle against those odds.

"I say, Doctor, thankee for takin' care of the lad," the seaman said wearily. "I will admit I've been worried out of my head, it took me so long to trace this fellow after the storm."

"Of course. Now, would you like some help in getting to the trap outside? I do need to look at that leg as soon as we get into a clean warm place."

_**Holmes**_

I did not allow myself to relax until we had finally, well after midnight, taken the last available train back to Weissberg. Given what I had been able to deduce from the notes Lachlan had found, I judged it best that we return to Weissberg Castle without delay; time would be our greatest ally here, as whoever was indeed behind this was counting upon it taking us quite a while to find and rescue our friends.

It had taken us far too long to get the slow constabulary there to complete their formalities, but at least we utilized the hours in my inspecting the notes, smoking four pipes, and generally making things darker in my mind instead of clearer, while Watson gave Lachlan the medical attention he so needed.

Just after midnight found us on the last train to Weissberg, and for the sake of keeping our quick return a secret I had not telegraphed ahead to the Count; his sleigh would not have held us all anyway, and I wanted not to chance warning our quarry of our return so soon after leaving.

Although our seaman had remained stalwart as ever, I could tell that the last few days had been as much a physical strain upon him as it had been an emotional strain on his young friend; and after the compartment had grown warm enough and he propped his bandaged leg on the opposite seat beside Watson and me, Lachlan was asleep within minutes.

Watson glanced over at me and grinned when we saw the young American's head nod steadily downwards before he finally gave up the fight and slumped against Lachlan's shoulder, dead to the world in an actually peaceful sleep for the first time in nearly three days.

Lachlan sighed and shifted slightly, and Watson scooted closer to me to give the man's injured leg more room, finally sitting back with a long, weary sigh.

"What a perfectly long day," he whispered softly. Only one day? Had it only been that morning that we left the castle? Surely not…yes, it had.

"On that point I entirely agree," I sighed, stretching myself and then slumping backwards as well.

"I still can't believe it, you know," he said quietly, gazing at the sleeping figures across from us with some lingering amazement.

"This business grows darker every hour, Watson," I said, frowning deeply as I thought of how the danger had progressed from minor harassment to this near-death escape. I did not at all like the progression, or what its outcome was obviously supposed to be.

"Do you really think that Strauss is behind the entire affair?" Watson asked, turning slightly in the seat to view my face better in the dim corridor light.

I sighed. "I do not know, Watson. Obviously, Fleischer's reaction was suspicious, highly so. And those notes Lachlan found point to men that are not classically educated, as the Count or his cousin for instance; a totally different phrasing and so on."

"That could be a blind, quite easily. We know our man, whoever he is, is certainly clever enough for it."

"Yes, but if he were that worried about the notes being found he would have sent wires or taken more pains to disguise his writing – and the notes were in two different hands entirely. Both hands were very simple block lettering, almost impossible to draw any real conclusions from other than that they were both men's writing. But if these men were that worried about the notes being found, I should think they would have instructed Fleischer to have destroyed them or sent telegrams instead. No, I believe them to be from men of lesser education; Strauss does seem to fit that.

Add to this the fact that the blackmailer is obviously someone not accustomed to doing such things, as the woman has only been threatened and no threat has yet been carried out after three months, and you have a man who does not really want to hurt the girl – and while Strauss may be a cad, I doubt he would resort to physical violence against a family member."

"I should hope not. But…is he really brilliant enough to pull off such a scheme, Holmes?" my friends asked incredulously. "I mean, the man obviously is prone to drinking and other less than desirable habits –"

"Which does not necessarily make him less than average intelligence."

"No, but still, it's not a point in his favour, certainly. And besides all that, Holmes – Strauss has no motive to break off the marriage!"

I winced, for he had indeed hit upon the point. Strauss had all the opportunity, the ability…but no motive whatsoever. If anything, he of all people had the motivation for the marriage to take place, before the family business went completely under.

"I know, Watson. He has absolutely no motive," I sighed.

"What will you do, then?"

I was silent for a moment, pondering. What, indeed? Were I to go blundering after Strauss with no proof and no motive and he were innocent, I would lose any chance I had of capturing the real criminal.

"We wait, my dear Watson. We wait and above all, make sure that something like the events of today does not happen again."

He nodded in agreement, looking across the way at our sleeping friends.

"I will not allow more innocent people to suffer because of their association with me," I vowed in a low voice, surprising myself with the unusual vehemence I could detect in my tone. Watson made no comment on the odd fact, like the true gentleman he was.

"Do you suppose the Lady Cecilia will be of any help to us in tracing those other two men?" he asked. "Since that one note telling when the other two men were to meet there in the village was postmarked from Vienna, it's entirely possible that the men are someone she, or Strauss more probably, knows."

"I shall give the descriptions to her, certainly, and perhaps Haight can sketch what the men looked like for her. It is worth a try, at any rate. And yes, Watson," I went on thoughtfully, "it is entirely possible that, if Strauss is indeed our man for motives yet unknown, that those two men who escaped and no doubt are back in Vienna are known to her. At least to him – shady business companions or gambling partners in all probability."

"What a tangled skein, to be sure," I heard him mutter behind a stifled yawn.

"Take a short nap, old fellow, we've an hour and a half left."

"You don't need a sounding board?"

He sounded so absolutely sleepy that I nearly laughed. "No, my dear chap. And no, I'm not going to fill this compartment with smoke either; I shall just be sitting here thinking for a bit."

"Right, Holmes…" he broke off with another yawn and then hunched down in the seat.

I observed he was still holding that left shoulder very stiffly; no doubt he was still in a good deal of pain which he of course was keeping from me. I would need to watch both him and Lachlan over the next few days, as they both were the type that would collapse rather than tell the truth about their conditions.

After a few moments Watson's breathing evened out, and I was left as the only awake person in our compartment, alone with my thoughts.

I had been thoroughly frustrated to learn that the likelihood of tracking those two men was close to nil, as they were obviously from Vienna judging from that note and were no doubt in the bowels of the city by this time. More frustrating was the fact that both the notes appeared to be in different writing; the one from Vienna was dated the evening before our friends had left Weissberg…wait.

If that note was dated then from Vienna, then Strauss could not have sent it. And yet Fleischer's reaction indicated he knew it was from Strauss. Odd, very odd…and it indicated more than one agency at work here, yet another fact I did not like. Strauss could have wired a confederate in Vienna to send the letter late that night, and it would have reached Fleischer by the next morning; in all probability one of the men themselves had sent the note after receiving instructions from Strauss.

And then I remembered the oddity in Fleischer's words that I had not picked up on at the time – he had said, "The _people_ who hired us," not the "person" who had done so. That indicated Strauss was working with someone, if he were indeed our man. More than one of them…

Then was the hand in the other note (which I was still annoyed with the police for not allowing me to bring with me) Strauss's? The one postmarked from Weissberg Castle, speaking of payment for a 'job completed as promised'? I cast back in my mind for the date…December 31…December 31…of course! The day after Lachlan had been pushed under that cab in Vienna! Fleischer must have been a sort of go-between for Strauss (if it was indeed he) and the other two men he had in his employ.

That all fit, certainly…but the problem of motive remained unsolved. Strauss simply did not have any kind of motive to blackmail his sister into breaking off the marriage and throwing away her fortune.

Was he being framed, then? Our man was certainly clever enough; was he _that_ clever, to pull off such an elaborate and dubious frame on the lady's brother? If so, what was his game? Why Strauss, why bother framing a man when obviously even Sherlock Holmes was baffled without the added deception of pointing suspicion at someone else?

I scowled, thoroughly angry at myself for not being further along in my investigation than I was. Because of my slowness, the people I cared about were being haunted and injured.

But no longer.

No more would any of them suffer because of or for me – I would die before letting such a thing happen again.

And that I vowed by all I held sacred.

My brain faintly registered that such a sentiment was better suited to a romantic, heroic temperament such as Watson's, but it was true nonetheless. The train and cab accidents, Watson's near-freezing in a snowstorm, the kidnapping, Lachlan's near-fatal plunge – I would not allow anything of the sort to happen again if it were within my power to prevent it.

This man – Strauss? – or whoever our perpetrator was, had made an enemy of the worst possible kind out of the wrong man.

And with that resolution firmly in place, I leant my head back against the cushion and attempted to relieve the tension holding my brain captive by getting a few minutes' sleep.


	39. To Tell the Secrets

_But that I am forbid  
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,  
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word  
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood._

_- William Shakespeare (1564–1616)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

_I was running, running, pulling the frozen air into my lungs, increasing the irritation, and above even my own desperate pants I hear the gasps of my companion beside me, wheezing and gasping as he stumbles, catches himself, and struggles to catch up to me… I turn back, still unaware, still thinking…it is all a great game, we are untouchable as we have always been before! _

_Then I see his face, the wild exultant grin that lights it…and then the gunshot that rips through the air, shattering my reality as it does...the sharp contrasts of bright red blood scattering over crisp, moonlit snow, of the cold that soaks into my trouser knees as I kneel beside him, turning him over, crying out in open horror at the terrible blankness that clouds his face…when only moments before it was full of life_…

"Holmes?"

Suddenly the white and red and cold vanished into the night, leaving a softly-lit blackness in its place, and I realised I was sitting in a train compartment, rattling along steel rails with a soothing clatter and swaying motion.

Watson was leaning toward me, a hand on my arm and a look of concern upon his face.

"Are you all right, old man?" he asked softly.

I blinked and glanced about quickly…it had been a dream, had it not. Thank heaven; that was one part of my young adult life I had no desire to recall yet again, that horrible incident so many years before…

I hastily shook the thoughts and still fading visions from my mind and forced a small smile to my face. "Yes, thank you, Watson. Where are we?"

His brows knitted at my dismissal of his concern, but he sighed resignedly and leaned back before answering. "We're nearly to Weissberg, perhaps another quarter of an hour. I didn't want to wake Lachlan or Haight until we got a bit closer; they need all the rest they can get."

I nodded mechanically, pushing that horrible recollection as far from my present state of mind as it was possible to push it and turning my attention back to the present. It was after three in the morning; I should like to get everyone back into the castle and settled in before I attacked the Strauss issue.

In consequence, after we arrived and had wakened a very sleepy American and our seaman, we left the station and I roused the stable owner I had met briefly before on my trip to town. Though he was thoroughly incensed at being awoken at that ridiculous hour, with the added inducement of nearly twice the normal fee for transportation (which effectively drained both Watson's and my pockets – I made a mental note to add that to the Count's bill), we soon found ourselves in possession of a rather old horse and a vehicle which Haight called a 'buckboard' and Watson insisted was a 'wagon' and Lachlan said he did not care what the blazes it was, to just get in and shut up, Renie.

I chuckled, giving the reporter a hand up into the back of the wagon. Watson was about to remove his coat for them to use as a cushion for Lachlan's injured leg (even had the buttons already undone) when the sailor snapped at him.

"Don't you even think about it, Doctor," said he irritably. "Dealin' with you being sick once in a lifetime is enough, I'll not have you developing pneumonia on my account."

"That leg needs to be elevated, though –"

"I'll just sling it across this young devil's legs, Doctor. Now get up there by Holmes and let's get this _buckboard_ or whatever it is moving, it's below freezing here."

"I'm sorry, Doctor, he always is rather grumpy when awakened, you know…" Haight called to Watson mischievously as he gently settled the injured sailor down beside him and, after tossing one of the few blankets lying inside the wagon up to me, pulled the covers over the both of them to ward off the worst of the chill. He then flashed us a satisfied smirk and continued his argument over the type of vehicle this dilapidated thing was to Lachlan, who finally cuffed him lightly upside the head and told him to pipe down.

_**Watson**_

Holmes smirked at our friends' antics and extended a hand over the side of the high seat to aid me in clambering awkwardly up to it, cringing himself when I made a face of distress at the added pain in my hands.

"Sorry, old fellow," he murmured apologetically, hesitantly offering to tuck the ends of the blanket snugly round me so that I need not move my hands any more; an offer which I gratefully accepted.

"All right back there, Haight?" he called over his shoulder above the early morning wind.

I glanced back worriedly when there was no answer, and smiled when I saw that the other two members of our party were already sound asleep again.

"Well, Watson. Let us see if this nag will make it out to the Castle without keeling over of old age," Holmes said dubiously, flicking the reins and starting the wagon along the white path.

I shivered as the wind seemed to bite right through my heavy coat, but thankfully the snow had stopped and the world was glistening in a brilliantly glittering moonlit morning, silvery beams glinting off of the snow-laden trees like so many diamonds.

"It really is beautiful, isn't it, Holmes?"

I heard a small snort of laughter, and a tiny puff of air clouded in front of his nose. "You are a hopeless romantic, my dear Watson."

I merely smiled and settled back on the hard seat, wishing the wagon were not so bumpy.

"How the deuce are they sleeping through – _oof_ – this?" Holmes groused after a half-hour of creaking along the snow-packed road.

"Haight at least was completely exhausted from grief and then later relief – that heavy an emotional reaction can literally drain a man for days. I ought to know," I said softly.

A smallish swirl of cloudy air let me know that he had sighed, and I hastily changed the subject.

"Holmes, supposing Strauss is the guilty party, how are you going to go about obtaining either a confession from him or evidence that will negate having to get one?"

I could hear the frown in his voice as he spoke through the shimmering silver gloom that surrounded us. "I've an idea, Watson, that we might be able to turn this bridal ghost's legend to our own advantage in that respect. But I am hoping that the Lady Cecilia will be able to identify those two men from Vienna and that from thence we may build a net out of which he will not escape us."

"I still don't understand what his motive could be," I sighed, shivering again and scooting closer to Holmes as the wind whistled through a stand of evergreens and curled about the wagon.

"Nor do I, Watson. There are several possibilities, but none that cover all the facts as we know them," he replied. "Therefore, until new facts come to light, I suggest we leave the matter."

"I can drive this old horse, if you'd like to try to sleep again," I offered, my mind going back to whatever had haunted him on the train – he had been wildly disturbed for a moment before awakening and obviously had no desire to tell me what it had been about.

"No, thank you, old chap. I have a bit of thinking to do…" he trailed off quietly, his quick mind already no doubt down some diverting path that hopefully would lead to the truth in this matter. I settled back to watch and wait…and to keep from freezing to death in the next hour.

I was very relived when, after dropping Lachlan, Haight, and I at the front door of the Castle, Holmes went off to wake Keller and turn the wagon and horse over to him. The moon was sinking lower on the horizon, but the sun was nowhere near close to showing its face yet due to the long winter nights.

A small glow was emanating from the back of the Castle in the direction of the servant's quarters; as it was after five now I was sure that Mueller or Lehmann were up at least to begin preparing for the family's rising with lighting fires and so on. And sure enough, after I had rung the bell that was heard in those quarters, it was only a few minutes before the door opened with a creak of frozen hinges and Mueller stood framed in the doorway, a candelabra in his hand and a look of pleased surprise at seeing me.

Holmes came running through the snow toward the door just as we all got inside into a scarcely less cold entryway, and soon Mueller was taking our chilled coats and hats.

"The master ordered your rooms kept up, gentlemen," the elderly butler informed Lachlan and Haight, speaking in perfect English for their benefit, "though no fire has been lit yet. I shall attend to it on the instant, sir."

"Don't bother, Mueller," Lachlan replied, "I'll wager we'll be dead to the world in short order. No rush."

"Very good, sir. Herr Holmes, will you be requiring anything else this morning?"

"_Danke_, Mueller, but no," my friend replied, stifling a yawn. "Would you inform the Count when he arises that I should like to speak with him before breakfast?"

"Certainly, Herr Holmes. If you have no further need of me, gentlemen, then I shall be attending now to my morning duties with the family and guests."

The kindly butler bowed stiffly and retreated with our wraps, and we headed en masse upstairs through the frigid halls to our wing.

"I would recommend an entire day of bedrest, Lachlan," I said sleepily, "but I shall settle for at least six hours uninterrupted sleep. I mean it, if you want to be moving about tomorrow do not get out of that bed before noon."

"I make no promises, Doctor," the seaman shot over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling merrily at me.

"Go on, Doctor, Mr. Holmes, I'll see to it that he gets in bed and stays there," Haight replied with a grin, waving as he more shoved than led the limping sailor into his bedroom.

I covered a yawn with my hand, fumbling for the doorknob with my other. Holmes reached out and pushed the door open for me and I nodded my thanks.

"You're going to speak to the Count before breakfast…good heavens, Holmes, that's in less than three hours!" I said in dismay, striking a match and fumbling for the candle beside my bed.

The soft light spluttered and then burned steadily, casting a gold glow over the chilly room…and illuminating a small figure curled up in a heavy blanket like a sleeping cat on my bed.

"What the devil…"

"Shhh, Holmes!" I hissed.

"Why is he in here and not his own room with the fire lit?" Holmes whispered as I very carefully slipped my arms under the lad's thin form and lifted him, wincing as my shoulder protested the movement.

Alfie stirred sleepily as I moved out into the hallway with him, blinking owlishly up at me with two bewildered green eyes.

"Oi, tha' yew, Doctor?" he mumbled, closing his eyes once more and snuggling down against me after glancing about. "Oi waited for yew ta come back…'s Mr. Lachlan an' Mr. Haight all roight?"

"Yes, Alfie, they're fine," I said softly. "Go back to sleep now."

I received no answer save a small snore, and Holmes laughed softly, opening the door for me and turning down the child's still-made bedclothes. I put the boy on the bed and pulled the coverlet and blankets up snugly round him, making sure the fire was well-stoked.

"He won't even remember that in the morning, I rather think," Holmes chuckled as we said goodnight.

I smiled. "Wake me up before you go see the Count? And no more tricks with the watch, either."

He grinned, the former black mood of the train having disappeared under the relief of being safely back in familiar surroundings and the simple faith of a child in our safe returning.

"Good night, my dear fellow."

"Good night, Holmes."

* * *

"Doctor! _Doctor!_ DOCTOR!!"

I jolted awake as my bed bounced up and down with the weight of someone very small and energetic, moaning as the light struck my eyes…surely I had only just gone to bed? I _had_ just gone to bed.

"Alfie, what in the world…" I rubbed my eyes irritably, trying to glare at the child bouncing on my coverlet.

"Mr. Renie came back, Doctor, an' 'e said 'e's gonna take me ta play swords after breakfas'!" the child whooped, jumping off the bed to land with a thud on a nearby chair, hopping from there to another article of furniture and on around the room in a far too energetic trip.

I sighed and glanced at my watch, just as there was a knocking on the door and Holmes poked his head in.

"My apologies, it appears that you've already been awakened," he said mischievously, and not at all sounding regretful about the fact.

Either the dark look I sent him or the slipper I hurled at the door were enough to cause him to laugh aloud and disappear into the corridor. I hastily prepared myself for what promised to be a long day and probably another sleepless night and then, taking Alfie firmly by the hand, went to check on our two friends while answering a veritable barrage of questions from a hyperactive ten-year-old.

I was more than happy to pass the lad off to Haight after breakfast in favour of checking once more on Lachlan's condition to make sure that there were no signs of infection from the graze upon his leg or serious damage to his ribs. This also enabled me to escape the clutches of Lady Claudia, who wanted a moment-by-moment depiction of our recent adventure from my lips and mine alone.

We spent the morning in bringing the Count up to date on matters as they stood and then waited for an opportunity to get the Lady Cecilia alone, away from Strauss, to ask her about the men from Vienna.

Lachlan was up and walking by the time the opportunity arose, and the three of us were conversing with the Lady in an unused sitting room when Haight rushed in with Alfie tagging at his heels. He stepped to Holmes and whispered something in his ear, and I saw my friend's eyes light up with excitement.

"Come, Watson. Lady Cecilia, you must excuse us – please tell our friends here all you might know about these men," Holmes said shortly, bolting from the room. I muttered an apology and hurried after him.

"What is it, Holmes?" I gasped, trying to keep up with his long legs.

"Strauss. He's going out with Sir August Konig, and as it has been very obvious that those men are by no means fast friends, I think it could bear looking into why they are just now out taking a morning stroll together."

"But they've gone hunting before; that's nothing suspicious…look there, out the window, Holmes. They've got hunting rifles, and they're not walking, they're riding," I protested, not exactly wanting to perform a shadowing job in three feet of cold wet snow.

"An absurdly easy blind, Watson. Before when they have gone out, they have always been in the Count's company; now all of a sudden they are alone together? Come along," he called over his shoulder, snatching his coat from the rack in the hall as he passed, nearly tipping the thing over in his haste.

I sighed and followed, as he knew I would. We had no time to saddle horses of our own, and as the men were not even trotting their own mounts but lazily walking, Holmes started after them on foot despite my protests. A half-hour later we were crouched in a clump of evergreens by a small clearing, trying to overhear snatches of the men's conversation as they talked in the opening – and failing miserably due to the wind picking up and bringing with it a dusting of more snow.

I shifted uncomfortably, the cold biting through my clothes. "We're not doing any good if we can't hear them!" I whispered.

Holmes growled something unintelligible under his breath in a low snarl. "We cannot get closer, or they will see us!"

"I'll bet you next year's Christmas present they're just out hunting snowshoe rabbits or something," I mumbled, shivering as a snowflake landed right in my ear.

Holmes swore roundly and crept forward in the trees, parting the branches cautiously…but not cautiously enough, for a tiny avalanche of snow came sliding off the greenery to plop wetly on the ground in front of the stand.

The voices suddenly stopped for a moment and then grew louder, more intense.

"They've seen us!" I hissed, jerking in my position. Holmes's hand clamped down on my shoulder and he whispered almost in my ear.

"Wait…wait."

I waited, tensed and quivering, while everything in me screamed for some sort of action. Things would not go well if Strauss and Konig found us spying on them, whether they were in some nefarious plot or not. Our position in accusing Strauss was slight as we now stood and we could not afford to lose that small chance.

But still Holmes waited, his hand quivering with the same tension where it clutched my arm, his eyes fixed intently on the clearing where the two men were secreted.

For a few agonising moments there was nothing but the muffled silence of the snow-filled air, then it was broken by the voices rising in whispered conference. Holmes leaned forward slightly as if to catch them.

There was a shout that set my hair on end, and my body took on a life entirely its own as I realized that we had indeed been discovered.

At once I was on my feet and my hand was on Holmes's collar, pulling him with me, up and back away from the two men who had been our quarry.

Holmes sprang into action at last and as I turned to retreat in a full-out run he was beside me, matching my own awkward gait with the fluency and ease of effort that was particular to him, slipping in between the trees and under branches as smoothly as a cat.

We were running full pelt, spurred perhaps by our adrenaline than our reason, for if the two of them had not already gotten a clear view of us we had left them quite enough clues to be reasonably sure of our identity.

My only thought now was for our safety, for if these men had come close to killing Lachlan and myself before…and if they caught up with us, alone in these woods, then any information we discovered would be worth less than the dirt beneath our heels.

They were held up by needing to mount their horses, and even if they were talented riders it would take them some effort and time to catch us up in this dense stand of trees.

As my lungs began to burn with effort, my mind slowly took control again and I slowed to a lighter run, hoping Holmes would realise my intention as he pulled ahead.

My relief was short-lived, however, for even as I slowed, my blood pumping in my head and my own heavy breathing ringing in my ears, I heard a sharp report and felt a sharp breeze just to my left, followed almost instantaneously by the tell-tale crack like that of a breaking branch.

Blazes! They were firing at us! Surely even they could not take such a risk…no bullet wound could be explained away as an accident.

_Unless it was a hunting accident,_ I thought with sudden, terrifying clarity. _With a hunter's bullet and hunting rifle._

I was about to start off again, to tear away from the spot where I had frozen in shock at the sound of the shot, but before I could fingers akin to steel closed over my arm, and Holmes's harsh breathing sounded beside me as he pulled me along, on through the trees.

It was not this that so surprised me, shocked as I already was…it was the fact that Holmes's grip was shaking.

Not from exhaustion or effort, as one would have thought, for his grip was as firm as ever…too much so, in fact. He held onto me as though I would be pulled into the pits of Hades itself if he did not, as though if he let go I would be gone.

But the rest of his arm shook like a leaf, sending the shivers down through me as he pulled me along at a jolting pace, an unsound mix of his even gait and my own limping one, at a horribly rapid speed that my bad leg was not at all suited for.

Something was wrong, I knew it though I could not see his face to confirm it as he was facing ahead, dragging me on through the trees, all thought and planning gone in the one intention of getting us out of there as fast as he possibly could.

Finally I could not take the pace any longer and I staggered, gasping desperately for breath, using my body weight (as I had no strength left) to pull him to a halt.

"Holmes…" I called breathlessly. "Stop, for the love of heaven!"

He did, brought up short by my own immobility, glancing back at me in surprise and with dawning realisation in his eyes, like a man awakening from a dream.

This was replaced with cringing apology as he took in the way I bent over almost double, gasping for breath and clutching at my throbbing leg.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry, Watson…it's just…I…"

He broke off, breathless himself, looking past me at the way we had come, still rigid and tensed as though he would take off at any moment.

I looked as well…and to my immense relief I saw nothing but black lines of trees and peacefully falling snow, covering our tracks even as we stood there.

I allowed myself a sigh of relief and leaned back against a tree, still rubbing my leg and breathing deeply, trying to still my racing heart against the comforting solidity of the bark at my back.

Holmes stood opposite, not taking his eyes off the direction we had arrived from, and though he got his breath back he did not relax limply as I did but stood ready and alert, his sentient gaze never wavering.

When at last I could breathe normally I spoke to him, trying to make my voice light and easy, to help him calm down.

"That was close…eh, Holmes?"

It was a feeble attempt, and he knew it especially, for he spared me only a glance before turning his gaze back, still tensed, still wary.

I sighed again.

"Holmes, what's wrong…you're unusually shaken by this."

He did not answer directly, but spoke in a distracted manner, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, and only at that moment did I notice how pale he was and the sheen of sweat that stood out upon his face, and how his arm quivered again as he lowered it.

"That _was_ close, Watson…too close…far too close."

I stepped closer to him in concern, jerking him out of his reverie. At once the open expression of anxiety on his face was closed under his usual stoic mask, and he almost took a step back from me as I drew near.

"Holmes," I repeated, "what is the matter?"

"Nothing," he said at once. "I'm fine."

Before he could pull away I caught hold of his wrist and pushed back the sleeve of his coat to feel the pulse. My own had slowed considerably…but his had not slowed in the least.

He pulled away from my grip and gave me a withering glare.

"I am fine, Watson. Leave it alone!" he snapped vehemently, drawing almost visibly further into himself.

But I could not shake the issue away; I could not let him brush this off.

I had been given few glimpses into Holmes's soul - for even when he was friendly and relaxed with me part of him was always guarded and withdrawn.

And just now, whether it had been triggered by the conversation we had frustratingly been unable to hear, or something his brilliant mind had realised – I had just received one of those glimpses. And whatever had happened had shaken Holmes to his very core, so that even he…the master of control and enigmatic expression…could not hide the fact.


	40. No More Wretched Occupation

_"__It was a somber place, __haunted__ by old jokes and lost laughter. Life, as I discovered, holds no more wretched occupation than trying to make the English laugh.__"_

_- Malcolm Muggeridge_

* * *

_**Watson**_

"Holmes," I insisted, watching him in concern; even now he could not fully hide the effects of whatever had so shaken him, still breathing somewhat heavily and his eyes filled with a haunted quality that I could not ever recall having seen there before. "You are not all right…something is wrong. Is it the case - did you see something?"

"No," he snapped, drawing even further into himself. "No, it was nothing like that, Watson. There was nothing."

I was reaching the limits of my own patience, my temper shortened even further by my concern and the fact that I knew I would be getting nothing more from him. "Well, something is out of place! I cannot recall ever seeing you so shaken!"

He stood with his arms folded, as though to block me off, and after schooling his face to its usual austerity he gave met my gaze in a show of normalcy that I did not buy in the slightest.

"I am fine, Watson."

I scoffed at this. "You _ran_, Holmes…you ran away and you pulled me with you. For heaven's sake, I have never seen you fearful of anything in my life."

Holmes glared at me again. "We were being shot at, Watson, and you were very nearly hit, if you cannot recall."

I stepped up to him. "It's not about that; we've been shot at before and the most you did was duck for cover. There's more to what happened than just that."

He said nothing, unable to divert the truth of my statement. I waited until the silence stretched for several moments and then I spoke again.

"Holmes, what was it, what happened? It was something you recalled, wasn't it? a connection…a parallel."

Holmes looked at me again, and as he studied my face his eyes regained that haunted quality. At last he spoke, and it was in a controlled voice that brooked no argument or intrusion.

"It was not myself I feared for, Watson…but you…just be careful, will you?"

As this new and startling piece of information entered my mind he brushed past me, heading off towards the direction of the castle, his hands now shoved deeply into his pockets and his head lowered into a brooding stance, making him looking like some great bird of prey walking over the snow.

On impulse I hurried to catch up with him, still too startled to be put out. He was worried about _me_, more so than before? Why? Why now, after so much had already happened with the train and the storm?

What had changed…what had he seen…or remembered…that was so very disturbing to him? I fell into place beside him and was able to match his gait that, while rapid, was now controlled rather than panicked.

He made no move to shake me off, either, and I did not press the matter, letting the familiar, companionable silence settle over us.

Whatever it was, was obviously something that his deeply personal attitude found impossible to discuss, and I would do him no good by infuriating him with fruitless requests, and doing myself no good by alienating myself from him by trying to get closer.

Besides, every man was entitled to his share of secrets and of privacy; he was a sound enough judge of his problems to be certain whether or not they would affect his case and those around him.

I would just have to be careful as he said, and watch my back…although it was most probable that he would already be watching it for me.

My only real worry was the strain that this issue presented to him. What on this earth could possibly be harrowing enough to make Holmes lose his control as he had?

I knew that talking could lessen the effects of such a strain, and if he was not willing to talk about the incident himself then perhaps he would discuss the only other thing that could be troubling him, this blasted case.

"Were you able to make anything out of their conversation, Holmes?" I asked softly, keeping my eyes on the blue-shadowed snow at my feet.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him look at me, almost warily, then he looked ahead once more.

"Very little."

A slight thrill of excitement ran through me, for I had been unable to distinguish any of it.

"Yes?" I asked eagerly - at last the chance to bring this case to a conclusion might be before us, and this whole insane nightmare could end. "What did you hear?"

Holmes did not stop walking, nor slow his pace, but he obliged my curiosity willingly…probably relieved that I did not intend to press him on the subject of earlier.

"I heard nothing that could convict Konig, Watson. Nothing solid enough, but from the sound of it they were discussing financial matters; sums of money, large sums, more than you or I make in a year, certainly. Strauss sounded frustrated and Konig himself must have been very calm or unnaturally quiet…I couldn't make out the tone of his voice at all. But the fact that the two of them were discussing monetary issues is more than highly suspicious.

"At any rate," my friend went on as we saw the grey spires of Weissberg Castle looming just ahead, "I think Strauss's involvement, if not his motive, is well-established by now, and if we cannot catch him red-handed at his own game, then I think we should try to get a confession out of him."

I frowned, for Holmes had tried this tack before, through bluff more than anything else, and it always proved to be a rather tricky business.

"What did you have in mind?" I asked.

Holmes leaned against a tree for a moment in silent contemplation, but after a moment his face was transfigured by that rather feral grin that always denoted the makings of a (usually elaborate and dramatic) scheme in his formidable brain.

"First we shall have to speak with Haight and Lachlan, and then with Lady Cecilia."

And before I could process that strange statement, he had taken off at a sprint back to the Castle, not stopping save to toss his coat to a scandalised Lehmann, and back to where we had left Lachlan and Haight to ask the Lady Cecilia about the two men who had abducted them.

We had only been gone for a little over an hour, but that had been long enough for Alfie to grow tired of annoying the cook in the kitchen and apparently he had convinced the young American to take him off to 'play swords downstairs', leaving Lachlan to continue the discussion with the lady.

"I told both of them not to go pokin' their noses into any dark storage units," Lachlan told us, moving out of his seat directly across from the Lady so that Holmes could take it and handing him a notebook as he did. "Renie sketched those two fellows for the Lady here, and…well, go ahead, Ma'am."

The Count's fiancée nodded and looked at Holmes, who had sat up expectantly with his fingertips touching under his chin.

"I cannot be certain, of course, from a sketch, Herr Holmes, but I believe they are two men from my father's factory," she said quickly. "They are on very good terms with my brother, which is a reason why my father is not overly fond of them himself – they are very coarse and rough."

"Rough enough to near kill me," Lachlan muttered, glancing at me ruefully.

"Lady Cecilia," Holmes's voice softened with an unusual gentleness. "You do realise, that this might indicate that your brother is the one blackmailing you, do you not?"

"I would not be at all surprised, Herr Holmes," the Lady replied dryly. "Hobart lives for money and drink and naught else, that is no secret. I love him as a brother, but as a man…" she made a small ladylike gesture of disgust.

I felt a twinge of sympathy, having dealt with a brother in somewhat the same manner years ago.

"However," Holmes went on more rapidly, now that he knew he need not fear a feminine outburst of hysterical anger or tears, "it is obvious that if Strauss is the one behind all this, he definitely is not working alone."

"These two men?"

"Not only them, my Lady. He must have a confederate inside the Castle, at least one and perhaps more. This is far too great a scheme to be pulled off by one man. And it is suggestive that nothing actually happened in the case until we came along; if he had done the entire affair alone, surely something would have befallen you before we arrived."

"Who do you think it is, Herr Holmes?" the lady asked eagerly.

"How well does your brother know Sir August Konig?" Holmes asked. He leant back in his chair and tapped a finger pensively against his lips while waiting for her reply, his mind no doubt processing something hidden to the rest of us.

The Lady Cecilia frowned and twisted her hands in her lap. "A bit too familiarly, I my opinion, Herr Holmes."

"He knew him before they came here, then?" my friend asked eagerly.

She nodded. "I do not know how well, but…at any rate, Sir August may be a baronet but his behaviour is far from befitting his class. He too is fond of gambling, and were it not for his sister's stringent personality," here she shuddered delicately, and a ripple of disgust ran through me as well, "he should have bankrupted his family long ago. I do wish Hobart would gain some friends that would have a decent influence upon him rather than men like Sir August and those horrid workers in my father's factory."

"Why was I not told of Sir August's monetary tendencies before?" Holmes demanded, suddenly irritable at the idea that someone had withheld a vital clue from him.

"I had no idea you suspected him," the lady retorted.

Holmes subsided back into his chair, frowning. "I did not, until this afternoon…and it could be mere coincidence, I will admit."

"But, Holmes," I began, puzzled.

The detective inclined his head in my direction quickly and motioned for me to continue.

"I still do not understand Strauss's motive. He gains nothing from breaking up the marriage, and certainly not in doing it by such a drastic and possibly deadly means - begging your pardon, Lady Cecilia," I hastily added, feeling my face flush in embarrassment.

"Pray do not waste your sympathy on my feelings, Doctor," the Lady replied dryly, giving the closest thing to a roll of the eyes I had ever seen from a well-bred woman. "I am fully aware that my brother is little better than the thugs in whose company he enjoys spending his free time."

Holmes had grinned at my discomfort and also shot the woman an admiring glance; it was not often that a female client worked with us as calmly and matter-of-factly as Lady Cecilia had once we had uncovered her deception. Now his face drew pensive in thought.

"I agree, the lady's brother has no motive as the matter stands; as it does, if the marriage does not take place, your family business will go bankrupt?"

The Lady Cecilia nodded calmly.

"But if we throw a money-hungry cousin to the Count into the mix, then the concoction takes on an entirely different flavour. Suppose Sir August – if it is indeed he who is Strauss's confederate – was backing a rival business and intended to monopolize the market once the Strauss textiles goes under?"

"All this, over a business venture?" Lachlan asked incredulously.

"Herr Lachlan, my family's business when it was at its prime processed the equivalent of thousands of pounds per day," the Lady explained quietly.

"Quite so. Men have been murdered for far less," Holmes agreed complacently.

"Then, supposing this hypothesis is correct, Holmes, where does Strauss fit into the picture here?" I asked.

"Strauss knows that his father will never turn over the reins of the business to him – am I correct, my Lady?"

The woman nodded with a small ladylike snort. "We should be in worse financial trouble than we are at present if he did," said she. "Upon father's passing, the running of the business falls to me, under the care of a friend of father's – a trusted and old friend, Mr. Holmes, with plenty of money of his own. You need not suspect him."

"Very well, then. If Strauss knows he will never actually get his hands on the inner workings of your family's business, my lady, then an offer from a rivaling business to liquidate your family's would certainly be appealing to a man who, as you said, lives only for money and immediate pleasure?"

The entire thing became clear to me in that moment – it did all fit, if those two men were the ones we were after.

The operative word there being _if_.

"That's a grand theory, Holmes," Lachlan said, "but how the devil would you ever be able to prove it unless one of us gets killed?"

The Lady's face paled, but Holmes merely laughed at the seaman's unintentional black humour. "I have a plan, that will require all of our cooperations including yours, Lady Cecilia. If, as I think, your brother is not really prone to violence judging from the fact that you have not been harmed, I believe this scheme will work into breaking his innately cowardly nature and evoking an involuntary confession. I shall need you to trust me, my Lady," he said quietly, looking at the woman with intensely questioning eyes.

"Herr Holmes, my duty and first love lies with the Count, not my pathetic brother. Use me as you will," she replied coolly.

"Capital! I shall need to borrow your wedding dress and veil."

"Certainly…may I ask what for?"

Holmes grinned and glanced at me. "We are going to make Herr Strauss believe that the ghostly woman you've been seeing, Lady Cecilia, is indeed a real part of the legend."

"You cannot ask her to do that, Holmes!" I said instantly. "If Strauss is dangerous, he could easily strike out and do her harm!"

"Yes, yes, Watson, your chivalry does you credit – but I've no intention of allowing the lady to put herself in any sort of danger," Holmes said impatiently.

"Um, Holmes…" Lachlan began warily.

The Lady stifled a giggle as both Lachlan and I looked at each other in dismay. "Who did you have in mind then to wear the thing, Holmes?"

* * *

"WHAT?"

"Now, Renie, calm down, lad –"

"Over my dead body! You are not getting me into that dress, I don't care _how_ good a cause it is!"

"Haight, if you will just listen to reason –" Holmes began with a longsuffering sigh.

"REASON? Isn't this _illegal_ even in your country?" the American shouted, backing up from the three of us warily.

"Haight, we need you to do this; it could break the case tonight!" the detective snapped impatiently.

"Why can't one of you do it? It isn't even our case!" Haight protested weakly, taking another step backward.

"Lad, on mine and the Doctor's parts at least the reasons are called a _beard_ and a _mustache_," Lachlan said dryly, his lips twitching in a desperate attempt to hide a broad smirk.

"And the fact that you're each at least a stone or two too heavy to fit into the thing," the detective added snidely.

"Yes, well, while you were blowing up the Cambridge chemical laboratory, some of us were at other schools playing _rugby_," I retorted.

Lachlan guffawed loudly at this, but Haight never cracked a smile, merely edging away from our discussions. The reporter took another step backward, only to be dismayed in finding himself against a wall.

"Holmes is clean-shaven and thin enough!"

"I am also considerably over six feet in height," Holmes replied dryly. "Have you ever seen a woman that tall?"

"But…but…"

"Haight, you're the only one who would fit in the dress," I explained rationally.

"Have the girl herself do it!"

"We need someone who can defend himself in case Strauss for some reason loses his senses and comes after the ghost," Holmes explained.

"And you think I'll be able to defend myself in that…_thing_?"

Alfie chose this moment to start giggling uncontrollably, which did absolutely nothing to help the situation. Lachlan clapped a huge hand over the lad's mouth and continued to speak calmly to Haight despite the squeaking sounds emanating from behind his hand.

"Renie, you have to see it's the only way. Now be a sport, lad," he said companionably.

"But…" the reporter whined dismally.

"Come along, Haight – if all goes well we could have this case wrapped up tonight, or at least a good part of it," I said, placing a hand on the lad's cringing shoulder. "And you do know that Strauss in all probability is the one who set those three men to abduct you and almost murder Lachlan? If Strauss had his way, Lachlan would be dead at the bottom of a ravine right now."

"That's a cheap shot, Doctor," the young fellow growled, his brown eyes glaring icily at me..

"Yes, it was," I grinned knowingly, clasping the young fellow's shoulder, "but admit it, quite effective. And another thing you probably should get used to in running with this sort of company, Haight, is having to do embarrassing things like this."

"Has he ever asked _you_ to put on a dress, Doctor?" he demanded.

I smirked and glanced at Holmes, who was highly amused by this entire discussion.

"Why do you think I continued to keep this moustache after I left the army?"

* * *

_Note: I realised after writing this ending that it was faintly reminiscent of a discussion in one of Aragonite's superb Yard stories about Inspectors Lestrade and Bradstreet, and we have her kind permission to keep it. _:)


	41. I Was Sleeping, and You Woke Me

_I was sleeping, and you woke me_

_To walk on the __chilled__ shore_

_Of a night with no memory._

_- Philip Larkin (1922-1986)_

* * *

_**Watson**_

After we had thrashed this interesting episode out with our friends, Haight retreated with a still-giggling Alfie to go make the child expend some strudel-based energy in building a snowman in the Castle courtyard.

Lachlan's limp had become a bit more pronounced as the morning had worn on, and when I suggested he lie down for an hour or so before luncheon he agreed with very little fuss. We then went with the Lady Cecilia to the upstairs library where the Count had informed us the legends of the family ghosts were written in book form; Holmes said that we needed to know the legend a bit better than we did were we to impersonate the female ghost tonight.

"Here you are, Herr Holmes," the Lady said, pulling a large leather-bound volume from a shelf. "This is where I learnt of the legend in the first place; it should help you."

"Holmes," I asked, peering over his shoulder as he opened the volume to inspect the yellowing pages, "you know that Haight speaks no German?"

"Yes, I had thought of that, Watson. But I fully intend to make this appearance rather theatrical with the use of some basic chemicals and the ventilator from the sitting room adjoining Strauss's bedroom. You shall see, Watson, you shall see."

I was pleased to see that the detective's face had lit up with that light of excitement that always heralded a very melodramatic, and very successful, plot of action, and I felt some of the same thrill of the hunt flowing through my veins as he continued to explain his plans.

"I need you to spend your afternoon making sure the rest of the household is occupied, my Lady," Holmes said. "Watson and I shall return to town – the wagon we rented must be returned this afternoon – and gather a few things for our performance tonight. If you could ensure that your brother and Sir August are not suspicious of our leaving, you will have done us all a great service."

"May I tell Heinrich what you are planning, Herr Holmes, or should you prefer that I not?" the lady asked, showing a deal of rather unusual common sense.

"I should prefer you did not, Lady Cecilia, though I would not presume to make that an order."

"Then I shall not, for your safety's sake. Shall I send Keller to pick you both up in town to return in time for dinner?"

"You anticipate my requests, my Lady," Holmes said with a respectful smile. "_Vielen Dank._ Then I suggest we adjourn and part company, so that none of the household grows suspicious that we might be planning something."

We parted ways once we had reached the main corridor downstairs, and the Lady headed to her room to freshen up for luncheon. Holmes remained still for a moment, his face thoughtful.

"What exactly are you going to have this 'ghost' say to Strauss tonight?" I asked in an undertone.

"I am sure I shall think of something," he replied absently, his mind obviously not upon what I had just asked. I sighed and gave up trying to question him – I should have known better by now.

We both glanced up as a short spurt of raucous laughter met our ears, approaching down the corridor, and a moment later we were met by Sir August and Hobart Strauss, who were shaking snow off their coats as they moved along the corridor.

"_Guten Tag_, Herr Holmes, Doktor," Sir August said affably. "We heard you got in last night quite late."

"Early this morning, rather," Holmes replied amicably. "Been hunting, I see. Any luck?"

Strauss swore softly in German, and Sir August rolled his eyes. "Not much, as you have no doubt deduced by now, Herr Holmes," said he, his keen eyes traveling from Holmes to me and then back.

"Quite. I suppose isn't a very conducive atmosphere to catching one's quarry, is it?" Holmes asked calmly.

"No, Herr Holmes," Konig replied with a small smile. "But the sport, the thrill of the hunt is so much more enjoyable that the actual catch is of less consequence, don't you agree?"

Perhaps I had just been chilled from the morning's excursion, but it seemed to me that the corridor grew suddenly colder.

"Actually, Sir August," Holmes said, and I noticed his voice had taken on a diamond-hard quality, "I believe the test of a true hunter is the successful entrapment of his prey; many men can hunt, but only a few hit the mark."

"Well spoken, Herr Holmes." Konig's face lit up in appreciation. "But the harder the hunt, the more enjoyable the triumph at the end, no? And a shot, though missed, can still hit near the heart…can it not? Enough to wound at least?"

He smiled outright at Holmes and I watched in surprise as my friend's face paled slightly and he instantly shifted his position, stepping almost defensively in front of me. I could see his thin shoulders being held tensely, and his hand clenched in his pocket, his jaw also rigidly stiff.

Did he really think that Konig was referring to the shot of earlier? The one that had only just missed myself? Did he really think that the two of them were intent on killing me?

Or was there something else…some private jibe that Konig was directing at my friend. Something he knew about that I did not?

"You and the Doktor should come out with us the next time, Holmes," Sir August said in a strange tone, leaning casually against the stone corridor wall. "We should be glad to have you join the sport…I believe the Doktor here would be a great asset to Strauss's and my game, from what I have heard about him..."

I blinked, unaware that any of them knew that I was actually quite a decent shot….I did not think that marksmanship had come up in conversation at any point…?

Holmes' eyes were harder then I had ever seen them as he snapped an answer to the nobleman.

"You are too kind, Sir August, but as you no doubt know, Watson and I prefer our own hunting. We have other prey in mind, and I am in greater need of his marksmanship than yourself."

Had I missed something in this conversation, or was he reading too much into the two men's words?

Whatever the cause, Konig's face creased in an amiable smile. "We'd be most happy if you would join us the next time, gentlemen. Come, Strauss, we've only a few minutes to change. See you at luncheon, Herr Holmes, Doktor."

I watched the two of them disappear down the corridor before turning back to Holmes, who had not moved a muscle, staring into space as if seeing a ghost.

"Holmes, what in blazes was that all about?" I demanded, my curiousity thoroughly piqued now.

"How…how does he…" I could barely make out the words, so low were they, and I still was not sure that was what was said.

"What, Holmes?"

The detective started violently, as if I had just awakened him from sleepwalking. "What is it, Watson?"

"I asked you what that – _fiasco_ – was all about," I replied worriedly – he looked even paler than he had before and I could not for the life of me discover why.

"Nothing, Watson," he replied calmly – too calmly. "I believe he is indeed involved; did you not hear the veiled challenge in those words?"

"I suppose it could be construed as such," I agreed slowly, thinking back to the talk about a hunt. "But it too could be mere coincidence, you know."

"Yes, indeed," he sighed quietly, beginning to walk slowly and despondently toward the dining hall.

I watched for a moment as he walked, his head bowed and his eyes on the floor, before heaving a sigh and following him, wishing I knew what it was that insisted upon taking over such a portion of his most formidable mind in this haunting manner.

_**Holmes**_

By the time Watson and I had returned from Weissberg that evening, I was thoroughly exhausted and I could tell, though he had not breathed a word of complaint, so was Watson. My weariness stemmed from four hours of steady nightmares, of a memory I had thought long buried. His, probably from the lack of sleep as well in addition to the pain I could still tell he was in though he adamantly refused my suggestion of a pain reliever, saying he needed all his wits about him for tonight's escapade.

I wished for a sedative myself when I found that Strauss and Konig seemed to be making a concentrated effort on monopolizing my conversation over dinner and afterwards, all the while keeping up what I believed to be a running undercurrent of tension and challenge. After an hour of attempting to steel my features into emotionless lack of response, the strain was beginning to show and I believed I should end up knocking one of them across the lounge if Fate did not intervene.

Lachlan had noticed this, and at my silent helpless signal of distress had come to my rescue as we sat with our coffee and cigars, asking Konig some questions about hunting and so on.

Watson would have, no doubt, rescued me from the conversations had he not been busy all evening fending off the Lady Claudia, who had all but latched herself onto my friend, wanting tale after tale of his adventures both in the Far East and in my company.

I breathed a sigh of relief when Strauss yawned rudely and left the lounge, saying he wanted to read a bit before going to bed, leaving Lachlan to keep Konig occupied alone. I glanced over to see with some amusement that Haight had lifted Alfie by the waist and was helping him aim a billiards cue at the balls upon the table, much too high for the child's reach.

There was a small rustling and a heavy thud beside me as Watson finally entered and dropped into the chair next to mine.

"Finally got yourself out of the woman's talons, eh?"

He leant on the armrest of the chair wearily, rubbing his eyes. "I shall never again deny the veracity of your opinion that women are not to be trusted, Holmes."

I laughed, surprisingly, and felt a bit of the tension ease that I had been under all the day. With any luck, this evening's escapade would go as planned and we would have our men – one of them, at least.

And the veiled threat I had read in Konig's words this afternoon – was it possible he actually knew? – would not become a reality. That had just been far, far too close this morning…

"Holmes?" From the tone of Watson's voice, apparently he had already said my name more than once.

"I'm sorry, my dear fellow, I was woolgathering. What is it?"

He sighed, his eyes sorrowful as they looked questioningly at me, and I knew he had divined that I was not merely daydreaming but remembering. No doubt I had unwittingly hurt him by my not revealing exactly what had been plaguing me all day – but there was no possible way either of us could benefit from it. We both had enough burdens as it was without dredging up the past and all its ghosts.

"Do you need me to do anything?" was his question, though I had the feeling that was not what he had originally asked.

"No, thank you."

"Then I shall go and try to get a few hours' sleep before tonight," he said quietly. "Don't let Haight keep Alfie up past nine-thirty, will you?"

"Certainly, Watson."

"And wake me when you need me to help you set up for the…performance," he said with a smile, standing to his feet. "Haight may need some help getting costumed."

* * *

Haight did indeed need help getting costumed, but Watson had looked so tired that I did not waken him until the last minute – nearly two in the morning, when I was certain that Strauss and the rest of the household were deep in sleep.

In consequence, he was rather grumpy, as he always was when I refused to allow him to cause harm to his own health with his unselfishness, but with the combination of a pot of coffee (courtesy of Lady Cecilia) and a fit of laughter when our American friend swatted a too-energetic Alfie over the head with a high-heeled shoe, he was soon fully alert and looking much the better for his rest.

"Ouch! Lachlan, for the love of Pete…" I heard Haight's squeak as Lachlan tried to get him into his costume (the reporter had quite vehemently insisted we call it a _costume_, not a dress).

"Hold your breath, lad. That's it. Doctor, give me a hand with these buttons?"

Watson's face flushed in embarrassment, and Lachlan slapped his forehead. "My apologies, Doctor, I forgot. Here, Alfie! Come 'ere and lend a set of smaller fingers."

The little urchin bounced over eagerly to help the seaman – I wondered if the child had sneaked a cup of coffee whilst I was not looking, for he was rather hyperactive – and I checked the supplies once more to see that I had everything. The phosphorus I had left in the sitting room adjoining Strauss's bedroom with the Lady Cecilia, and the rest I had here with me. Yes, all was in readiness for our little adventure.

"Yew look awful pretty, Mr. Renie," Alfie snickered, stepping back from the furious young American.

"You are going to pay for that one, Master Alfie, I promise you!"

"You're a good man, Haight," Watson said commiseratingly, opening the door and peeking out.

"And an even better woman," Lachlan dead-panned.

"Shut up! Mr. Holmes, seriously…what am I going to do if this fellow tries to kill me? I can't even wear my shoulder holster in this thing!" Haight asked worriedly.

"It will not come to that – if he shows signs of growing violent I shall certainly put a stop to it in short order," I said firmly. "And, judging from the bruise on the midshipman's nose, I would say you can defend yourself for a few seconds well enough, at any rate. Now. Watson?"

"All clear, Holmes."

"Right. Ladies first." I could not resist the jibe, though to be truthful I did feel rather sorry for the young fellow.

Haight cursed roundly and tripped over his satiny hem on the way out the door.

"Dear me, such language from a lady!"

"Holmes, that's enough, leave him alone," Watson chided, though he was himself repressing a smirk at the American's expense.

Alfie sniggered behind me, and I was beginning to regret allowing the lad to come along; Watson had been most insistent that he was not about to leave the boy sleeping alone in our corridor with two murderers on the loose (Alfie had then been very much excited about the idea and proceeded to demonstrate the sole Baritsu move I had taught him long ago to prove that he was capable of 'taking 'em') and I had agreed finally.

We did, surprisingly, make it to the sitting room adjoining Strauss's without mishap to either our silence or the Lady Cecilia's wedding gown. Upon entering, I motioned Alfie to a seat on a chair at the opposite wall from where I was going to be.

"Not a word out of you, young man, or I shall personally see to it that you have no more fun the entire time we're here, do you understand?" I hissed in his ear.

Wide-eyed, my little Irregular nodded at my unusual severity and wriggled into a comfortable position.

"I did as you asked with the window, Mr. Holmes," the Lady Cecilia whispered, opening the door and gesturing to a thick black string that extended under the closed door into the corridor.

"Excellent. Then please, may I request that you retire to your chamber and wait for my signal that all is clear?"

The lady nodded a trifle fearfully, but upon seeing Haight scratching nervously at the lace on his sleeve, she relapsed into a noiseless giggle and left the room a little more relaxed than when we had entered. The reporter scowled and stumbled to his place at the door that connected the sitting room with Strauss's bedroom.

I removed a small packet from the supplies I had brought and handed it to Haight.

"Toss this into the fire when you get in there," I whispered.

"What is it?"

"Flash powder and a tiny bit of sulphur. It will blind Strauss for a moment before the effects subside into the smell of brimstone," I replied with a devious smile.

"Sulphur?" Watson asked incredulously. "That's not made an appearance before."

"We are going for maximum dramatic effect here, Watson," I said impatiently. "And there was a limit to the effects that bumbling village apothecary could give me."

"What about this?" Lachlan whispered, holding up the bottle of phosphorus.

"You need to uncork that before you start your haunting as well, Haight," I said quietly.

"Right. Bottle, then the fire. And then I wake the guy up?" the reporter asked nervously.

"If he is not awake already. You remember everything I told you?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," the young fellow said nervously, fidgeting with the heavy veil, moving it into place on his head.

"Good. Haight, remember, if he turns violent do not hesitate to defend yourself," I warned, in a more serious tone, as I laid a cautionary hand on the young chap's shoulder.

"Right," he whispered, taking hold of the phosphorus with one hand and his skirts with the other.

"Good luck," Watson said uneasily, laying his revolver beside him on the table.

"Yeah…" Haight gulped and glanced at the seaman, who smiled encouragingly and then went to take his station in the hall.

I nodded in reassurance and opened the door to the other room for the American, who noiselessly (save a rustle of gown) entered. Then I silently shut the door and took up my position at the very excellent ventilator on the wall. At first I had contemplated just standing in the darkened doorway to speak, but decided that just in case Strauss was lucid enough to realise the fact it would be better to not take the chance. It was a pity that the bedroom did not sport a secret passage, but we would have to make do with what we had.

Luckily for us, the man had again in the lounge drunk a bit too much before he retired, and so hopefully his senses would not be at their fullest (which was not saying much to begin with).

A moment later a soft, faint greenish glow began to show in the darkened room; though we could not see the phosphorus we could see Haight, who was now moving toward the fireplace. After a few seconds crawled by, the fire suddenly blazed up in a blinding flash, and the acrid smell of sulphur filled the air.

Strauss had jumped awake at the flash of white brilliance, which had now faded back into the green glow surrounding the ghostly figure of a woman (well, not really) in white, advancing slowly toward the bed.

The man gave a kind of startled yelp and sat bolt upright, cringing against the headboard. I nodded to Watson, who poked his head out the door to signal Lachlan, and a moment later the shutters on the window flew open in a rather satisfying and thoroughly theatrical crash, letting a cloudy beam of cold silver into the room to mix with the other effects.

Even I could not have anticipated the look that came over the man's face as he beheld Haight, who had, in my eyes at least, ceased to be the familiar, grinning and lightly jeering reporter, and now resembled the ghosts of myth and legend with which our own little isle was so rife.

To his credit, Haight recalled exactly what I had spent an hour drilling him in earlier; like any well-versed actor he passed the fireplace and stopped on the mark in the darkened corner to its left, one that I had picked out precisely for its distant, but direct position from the bed. Strauss could make out the figure which hovered eerily in the darkness, but could not see its features properly…or its feet, from his position. For all he knew it was just a wisp of light, in the vague shape of a woman.

A small sound followed the crash, one that I myself had devised and told the American to make…and still it made the hair on my arms and neck stand on end.

It was a low keening, a miserable, lost, unending wail that ended in a sort of moan. It sounded not so much like a woman crying…as the whimpering of a small dog, not quite human.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Watson give a shudder and then my attention was drawn once again to the interior of the room. Strauss drew back further against the headboard, his fists clenching the blankets of his bed, his mouth working soundlessly as though he could not believe the evidence of his own eyes.

"No," he gasped in a slightly slurred German, a strangled whisper, "No…you're not real, it's not real."

Now was my part, and I drew a breath as Haight turned slowly towards the bed, unrecognizable in the drifting veils that covered him and in the semi-darkness.

I whispered into the grating, pitching my voice so that it was hoarse and unrecognizable, grating like one stone against another. Not a woman's voice, though I had considered that, more like the voice one would associate with the dead or the dying, as though coming from the throat of a dry corpse.

"You," I whispered also in German, as Haight took a slow, ponderous step forward, his head lolling limply to the right.

"You are the one," I said again and right on cue Haight lifted his arm, held rigidly stiff, to point right at the trembling Strauss.

I thought it best to keep the dialogue as simple as possible; for haunting, like threats, were best left up to the victim's own imagination.

It worked, and in one instant hours of preparation were rewarded as Strauss let out a second shriek and scrambled backward, falling back off the bed to the floor.

Haight followed him, still distant enough but looming up over the man like a shadow, made taller by the ridiculous heels he wore.

"You are the cause of grief and the bringer of death in this house," I whispered, still in Strauss's mother tongue, though I doubted he would even notice if I switched to English now. "You are a plague on this house and its occupants and I will end you, even as I met my end."

Strauss raised his arm defensively above his head. "No…" he whispered, horrified. "No, please, it wasn't like that, it was only for the money, to get what was mine. She wasn't hurt, we didn't touch her..."

Still Haight advanced, until Strauss was crawling backward off the carpet and onto the cold stone of the floor, gasping for every terrified breath.

"I will take you," I whispered, very much enjoying myself now, and watching this pathetic man crawl, the very one who had caused me so much grief and had brought my friends to harm. "I will take you and the other…you will not die alone."

"But I didn't do anything!" Strauss gasped. "It was him! It was Sir August! He took it too far! I _told_ him he was taking it to far!"

I grinned. There…that was it…just what we needed; he had no choice but to confess now.

I straightened from the vent and smiled to Watson, who looked very relieved at the ease of our conclusion and fell into step beside me as I went to the door and opened it calmly.

I smiled down at the cringing man as Haight pulled off the smothering veil, and I met his shocked and suddenly understanding gaze without an ounce of mercy.

"Well, well now, Strauss," I said. "That is interesting to know…would you care to elaborate?"


	42. In a Haunted House, No Quarter Is Given

_In the haunted house no quarter is given: in that respect  
It's very much business as usual. The reductive principle  
Is no longer there, or isn't enforced as much as before._

_- John Ashbery (b. 1927)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

Strauss took a gasping breath and looked up at me, then over to Haight, who looked rather comical in the dress that now dragged the ground, after he had already kicked off 'those blasted heels'.

The Bavarian's eyes grew round as he realised he had been tricked quite effectively, and immediately a malevolent gleam entered them as he began to slowly take his feet.

"I wouldn't," Haight said calmly. "I've been itching to poke you one ever since I met you, Strauss – I'd like nothing better than for you to give me the opportunity."

Strauss looked askance at the young American but, upon seeing me behind him and Watson to my right, revolver trained on him, he subsided with a fit of fluent harsh German cursing.

"I didn't understand that, but I'm guessing it wasn't very nice," Haight observed.

"On your feet," I snarled in English for Haight's benefit, yanking the villain the rest of the way up and shoving him into the desk chair.

"I'll tell you nothing, Holmes," Strauss spat angrily, jerking free of my grip.

"Then pray allow me to lay the facts down, and contradict me if I do you an injustice," I replied coolly. "Watson, a little light would not be amiss in here, and if you could open the window as well, the smell of sulphur is not a conducive odor to loosening stubborn tongues."

My friend nodded and passed behind us to the window, opening it a few inches and then lighting the gas jets near the door. I turned back to Strauss, elation filling me with the euphoria of triumph – I had won at last, part of this night at any rate.

"For years now, Herr Strauss, you have been steadily embezzling funds from your family's business, due to your expensive habits and poor choice of company. You plunged yourself so deep into debt not long ago that your creditors – those you thought were your friends but in reality are so many thugs – were making Vienna too hot to hold you. Your family business was going bankrupt, and there seemed no way out for you."

If looks could kill, I should have been dead before the first sentence was over. I merely met Strauss's black look with a smirk of satisfaction and continued, pacing up and down in front of the man.

"It was in one of these foolish ventures of yours that you made the acquaintance of Sir August Konig – a sportsman in every sense of the word…but one that had no qualms about hunting quarry other than deer and rabbits," I snapped. "Konig has had shady business ventures in the past, and I have no doubt that I will find him to be heading a rival company to your family's or else a heavy stockholder in some such company. Konig plunged you into debt, and then instead of collecting his dues in the form of your worthless life, suddenly realised he had a more profitable opportunity in simply running your business under and so taking control of that corner of the market."

Strauss swore in German, eyeing Watson as if gauging his attentiveness with the revolver. My good Boswell merely raised an eyebrow and the gun without saying a word. Strauss gulped nervously and looked back to me.

"He then approached you with a proposition – help him run the Strauss textile business bankrupt, and he would forgive your debt to him. Am I correct?"

The Bavarian merely glared at me.

"You, being concerned only with your own monetary gains, complied willingly to destroy your own family's business and so net yourself release from your debts – as well as the added inducement of being able to keep whatever you continued to embezzle from the business funds. He might have even offered you a position of power in his new business venture – foolish of you to trust that he would actually allow you to live after what you know."

"Your own family, Strauss," Haight snapped in disgust.

"They would have survived the bankruptcy," Strauss snapped in English back at the reporter. "I would not have _survived_ a final confrontation with Konig had I refused his offer!"

"All appeared to be going swimmingly," I went on, unperturbed by the flaring tempers, "until Count Austerlitz entered the picture, with his subsequent engagement to your sister. After a marriage, it would have looked far too suspicious for the cousin of the Count to suddenly corner the market and blow his relation-by-marriage's business completely out of the water. And it would have been rather difficult to keep your complicity in the affair a secret at that point."

"I didn't let him hurt her, you have to believe me!" Strauss cried suddenly, turning to me with a look more of pleading than his previous anger. "Money's one thing – but I wouldn't let him touch her."

"I am aware of that as well," I said more quietly. "But you did agree to blackmail her for Konig. Only you knew of that incident so many years ago – you did the blackmailing, but you refused to actually lay a hand on the girl, which explains the three months of blackmail with no action taken."

Strauss gave a barely perceptible nod.

"But the Lady, being the strong-willed woman she is, would have none of it, and so summoned me by reinventing the ghostly legend herself."

"The bridal ghost – it was Cecilia?" the man gasped.

"Quite," I replied. "She did it to convince the Count to employ us, so that I might discover the truth. Was it you or Konig who followed the Count to London and then later pushed Watson under a train in Strasbourg?"

"It was…it was Fleischer, which I heard you already have met," Strauss admitted. "I was only a go-between, I swear – I had nothing to do with any of the accidents, I didn't have a choice –"

"But you were the one who sent the messages to Fleischer and the two others, who kidnapped Lachlan and Haight. I assume Fleischer followed the two of them after they parted ways with us, to push Lachlan under that cab in Vienna?"

Strauss nodded, his antagonism gone now in the hopes that he might get off easier with cooperation. "Konig thought they went to Vienna to check out the business affairs, and again when you sent them off the second time."

"Holmes didn't send us anywhere, you idiot," Haight snarled. "I'm a reporter, man, and I had a legitimate job in Vienna!"

The man paled. "I really didn't want to hurt anybody," he almost whimpered. "Konig wanted to stage an accident with Cecilia, but I told him I'd go to the police with everything if he laid a finger on her…"

"So he targeted us instead," I interjected.

Strauss nodded. "Once he found you were coming, he knew the game was practically up – that asinine sister of his has read all about you, Mr. Holmes, and he knew he'd never stand a chance against you if you were at your full concentration."

"So he staged accidents for the sole purpose of keeping me off-balance?" I asked.

Strauss nodded. "The stuff in the wood in your room, the glowing appearances, the locking people into rooms, the horseman – that was all his idea. Konig's always dabbled in theatrics; he's such a volatile, melodramatic person. And…and when he heard that you were coming, he became obsessed with finding out how to beat you."

Watson snorted. "That's been tried before, by far better men than Konig," he snapped, the first words he had uttered since this confession had started.

"Yes, Doctor – but perhaps those men were not using the correct leverage."

I felt my skin crawl as a far too familiar voice sounded from behind us. Watson and I whirled round at the same time, and I heard the click as my friend cocked his revolver –

And then, a horrified look flooding his face, promptly lowered the weapon at the sight that met our eyes.

"You were doing so very well, Holmes," Sir August Konig said with a pleasant smile, one thick arm wrapped chokingly around Alfie's neck and the other holding a pistol pointed directly at the child's head. "So very well indeed…but you neglected to deduce that I am not quite so stupid as to leave my weakest link completely unguarded when I know you are close to discovering the truth. Strauss, you filthy coward, I should have expected you would crack under the slightest pressure."

I paid no attention to Konig's anger toward his minion; my eyes were on the terrified face of the little boy – he was such a little boy! – I was supposed to have taken care of this case. What had I done?

"Oi'm sorry, Mr. 'Olmes…'e came in too quick, oi couldn' do nuffin'…" the child sobbed softly.

"Alfie, just do exactly what he says, understand?" Watson said shakily.

"I'll thank you to drop that revolver, Doctor," Konig said coolly. "I am quite certain that Mr. Holmes would not appreciate having his biographer's brains blown all over him and this child here."

I felt the blood drain from my face, but Watson immediately dropped the gun with a shaking hand.

My mind was racing…if only I had kept a better eye on that boy! Watson would never forgive me – I should never forgive myself! – if something happened to the lad. And I knew Watson was so worried sick about the very idea that he would be of little help in thinking clearly. It was up to me…I had to _think_…

I saw Haight suddenly look at me, and then at the door leading to the hall – of course! We had left Lachlan on guard outside! Perhaps…

"I wouldn't be expecting help from your seafaring friend, gentlemen," Strauss sighed tolerantly, his grip tightening around Alfie's neck – the lad's green eyes were wide with fright, staring at me helplessly - "I'm afraid I was forced to dispose of him before entering the other room. Rather stupid of you, Holmes, to guard your rear with only a child of ten and an injured sailor."

Haight erupted into a streak of furious swearing that Lachlan would have been proud of but unfortunately only fueled Konig to laugh uproariously.

"I must say, my American friend, that you look far more attractive in that dress than does the woman it belongs to," he chortled with an air of high amusement.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Watson edging forward – surely he was not going to rush the man, holding the boy as he was!

"Don't move another step, Doctor, I give you fair warning," Konig snapped.

"Konig, let the boy go," Watson pleaded. "He has done nothing – if it's a hostage you're wanting to ensure your escape, then –"

"Stop, Watson," I snapped out of instinct. The man's stupid selflessness would someday get him – or both of us – killed. There had to be another way…

"I'm sorry, but I have to refuse your request, Doctor," Konig said in mock sorrow. "You see, I do have to leave this country, tonight. And as your friend here has seriously inconvenienced my plans by choosing this ungodly hour to make your final performance, I must ask the lad to accompany me in my journey, for insurance purposes."

"Mr. 'Olmes –" Alfie wailed, struggling in the man's grip.

"None of that, _Junge_," Konig sighed, tightening his arm round the boy's throat until his struggling grew more feeble.

"Stop fighting him, Alfie!" I snapped. _Think…_

"Don't take him, you can take any of us," Haight offered shakily. "Didn't you want one of us in the first place?"

"Oh, certainly not," the man sighed wearily. "The only reason I even went after any of you at all was just a ploy to keep our favorite detective here not thinking clearly. You were all so many distraction devices, no more."

"Konig," I snapped. "You've made it abundantly clear that you want _me_, and me especially. Let the boy go, and do what you will with me instead."

Konig laughed, leaning closer to my face. "You are in no position whatsoever to bargain with me, my dear Englishman. I am taking the lad – and you will not follow me, if you want to take him back to London with you, breathing and relatively unharmed."

Watson's face drained of any colour it still retained, and I knew I was not far behind.

"Let him go, Konig, and I'll give you a head start before coming after you," I offered through clenched teeth.

"Still attempting to bargain with me, Holmes? I would stop were I you, unless you'd like me to put a couple of bullets into the Doctor and your American friend to keep you occupied while I leave. And _you know that I would do it, Holmes_."

I felt my face blanche, for I did indeed know he would do it – he knew, I knew that he knew what had happened before…

"Very well," I growled, furious with myself now for letting myself be lulled into a sense of security tonight. "Alfie, do exactly what Sir August says."

The boy's frightened eyes pooled up with unshed tears of fear, but he nodded shakily above the man's thick, strong arm.

"Now then. Strauss, I assume you can take things from here. I shall meet you at the original rendezvous," Konig said calmly, kicking Watson's revolver in Strauss's direction. I watched helplessly as the other picked it up with a grin of triumph, pointing it directly at me.

"_Guten Nacht,_ gentlemen," Konig said politely with a small bow, backing out the door and dragging Alfie with him.

"Strauss, let me check on Lachlan at least before you do whatever you're going to do," Haight said immediately, turning to the criminal facing me.

"Do you really think I am that stupid, American? Stand where you are, or I will shoot Mr. Holmes here."

"I doubt that," I said coolly, advancing toward the man slowly.

"Holmes, stop!"

I made a sharp slicing motion in the air with my hand and Watson subsided into a worried look, glancing wildly about the room.

"Strauss, you just said to me that you had no desire to hurt anyone – do you really want to start that now? You're already guilty as an accomplice, would you like to add an actual murder or assault to your charges?" I asked reasonably.

"Stay where you are, Holmes!"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Watson reaching into his pocket, excruciatingly slowly so as not to attract attention. Whatever he was doing, I had no choice but to continue to engage Strauss in conversation.

"Strauss, that child is completely innocent – he's just as vulnerable as your sister is. Do you really think that Konig is going to let you live now that you have been in on this alone? He'll kill you, just like he might be going to murder that innocent boy and probably after that your sister!" I snapped impatiently…every moment that went by was another that got the villain further away from us.

"He wouldn't dare – I have friends…he wouldn't dare try it," Strauss growled, though I noticed he was not paying very close attention to anything else besides me, and he was not holding that gun very tightly.

"He's already tried to kill each of us, Strauss," I retorted. "You really think one more murder – that of a hated business rival, no less – will really distress him all that much?"

From my peripheral vision I saw a blur as Watson's hand moved, flinging something directly at the man's face – and a moment later Strauss was screaming and scrubbing at his face with one hand, trying to remove some dark liquid from his eyes. At the same instant, both Haight and I dived for the man.

The young reporter reached him first, however, hitching up his skirts and spinning round on one foot in a very impressive kick that sent the revolver skittering across the stone floor. Watson promptly dove for the weapon, and Haight rounded on Strauss and planted a punch so hard to the man's face that he screamed and was flung backward into the bureau, sliding to the floor in a heap and lying still.

"Secure him," I shouted, following Watson out the door.

My friend fell to his knees beside the motionless form of the seaman in the hall, slumped against the stone wall.

"What was that you tossed at Strauss?"

"Your Christmas gift – fountain pens hold liquid ink," he said shortly, checking over the limp figure of our friend.

"Bump on his head, probably from a gun butt – he'll be all right," he said after a moment of timing his pulse.

"Haight, take care of Lachlan, I'm going after Konig," I bellowed into the room. "And send Mueller or someone into town for the police!"

"Is he hurt bad, Doctor?" Haight called, engaged in securing Strauss with the bell-rope and the Lady Cecilia's veil and sash.

"No, I don't even think he has a concussion," Watson replied, checking and then pocketing his revolver.

Strauss moaned and started to move, and the reporter hastily clunked him over the head with a high-heeled shoe, sending him back into unconsciousness. I turned to leave.

"Lachlan may need your attention, Watson, stay with them," I snapped, casting one more glance at Strauss, my hand on the doorknob.

I was thoroughly surprised – and not a little angered – when I turned back to the door and found the man standing there, blocking it.

"Not a chance."


	43. There Is No Way Out

_Often in __winter__ the end of the day is like the final metaphor in a poem celebrating death: there is no way out._

_- Agustin Gomez-Arcos _

* * *

_**Watson**_

"Go back, Watson, please!" Holmes growled at me as we entered the stables, going for at once for the tack room.

I sighed and followed along behind him, ignoring his objections as I had been the past quarter of an hour.

Luckily for us, the Count kept his stables in excellent order and the tack for each horse was set out on individual hooks and shelves, oiled and ready for use. Oddly enough, the startled groom Meyer we rushed past had no idea ought was amiss – Konig must have had his horse (the one upon which he impersonated a ghostly horseman and kept in an outbuilding on the estate) waiting in preparation for his escape.

After brusquely waving off Meyer's questions, Holmes, as I thought he might, chose the tack for the horse that the Count favored for hunting, a tall, powerfully built animal that would not only be able to make his way with ease through the drifts of snow but with considerable speed as well.

I chose tack for a slightly smaller mount, thin and built entirely for speed. I did not doubt that Holmes would be in the lead for this entire chase, and my only concern would be in keeping up with him which meant following in the trail that he had already created.

He gave me another pointed glare as I took down the bridle and made to follow him from the room, the saddle over my shoulder.

"I said go back, Watson!"

"And _I_ said not a chance," I replied readily, brushing past him and going to the small brown gelding I had selected. "I am not letting you do this alone, and there is nothing you can say that will make me change my mind."

The detective slung his saddle over the roan stallion in the stall across from me; the large creature turned his head toward him and let out an inquiring whicker.

"What about Lachlan…you cannot be sure he does not have a concussion, and his ribs may have suffered in the fall."

"If he has a concussion I shall deal with it later, and we both know by now that he is made of sterner stuff than most. I would be following you even if he had a skull fracture, Holmes – now stop arguing. We haven't the time."

I put the saddle on my own mount, secured it, and eased the bridle over the horse's long nose. The clasps were small and somewhat painful to secure with my lightly bandaged hands, but I had regained enough dexterity to accomplish it.

Even so, Holmes was ready before me and leading his animal out into the open. I fumbled with the last buckle, made certain that my revolver was tucked safely in my pocket, and hurried to follow him.

He had not gone without me; he stood by the door, his thin aquiline features illumined and weirdly shadowed by the nearly full moon which shone between breaks in the clouds.

He watched me approach and let out his own sigh of frustration, his breath curling up around his head in a cloud of steam.

"Watson, it is dangerous."

"All the more reason to come along." I said, stopping beside him and putting my own foot in the stirrup and swinging myself up onto the horse.

I looked down at him, where he still stood, his face set in a worried grimace.

"I know that you are physically capable of stopping me, Holmes, but it will take a great amount of time and effort to accomplish that, and every moment we sit here Konig is getting farther and farther away with Alfie. I do not know what is causing you so much concern, but I can assure you, you need not worry about me."

Holmes hesitated a fraction of a second more before mounting himself and turning his horse toward the tracks left by Konig's own mount.

"Yes, I do, Watson – there is a very good reason why I don't want you to come."

I sighed and when he did not elaborate asked, "Why, what has been troubling you these past few days? What is so concerning that you cannot allow me to accompany you?"

He said nothing, his face set as though made of stone.

"It was something to do with that incident in the woods, wasn't it?" I asked. "That was a deliberate ploy to play on your fear."

I did not need an answer from him to know that I was right, and however I wished he would confide in me we did not have the time.

"Holmes, whatever it was, whatever you believe Konig is capable of, I am well up to the task. You needn't concern yourself, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I am following you whether you like it or not."

Holmes looked at me, his eyes full of an unusual sorrow. "Oh, my dear Watson," he said, "That is just what I am afraid of…have you your revolver?"

"Of course."

"Then keep it ready."

He gripped the reins of his horse and urging it to a walk and then almost instantly to a gallop, rising up in the saddle to grip with his knees.

He was away so fast that I had to hurry to urge my own mount forward, and even then it was not easy to keep up with him.

I have never had any real occasion to remark on Holmes's horsemanship, and if I had known of it at the time I might have included it the list that I had compiled in our early days at Baker Street; but it was not until a year or two later that I found out.

Holmes, being of country stock, had learned how to control a mount early on in his youth, and had even been considered a fair jumper in his time. He seemed to have an excellent connection with most horses and he directed them with the same delicacy of touch that he applied to his chemical experiments.

The result of having an excellent animal of superb breeding who can sense that his rider knows what he's doing, is a partnership that seems to move with one mind and intent, and in the same instant that Holmes flicked the horse's head in one direction, it was already turning.

Thankfully I had done a great deal of riding myself before and during my time in Afghanistan, and so I knew not only how to saddle a horse but was also a fair rider, so that I could keep up with Holmes even if I was not on the same level as he.

I kept my eyes on my friend and he on the trail left by Konig, who seemed to have torn almost carelessly through the fields surrounding the castle and toward the south of the estate, which we had not explored very much of since that part of the estate led to nowhere.

It was, I realized with a thrill, the very same landscape that Holmes and I had seen the ghostly horseman galloping across.

For any of my readers that have not been privy to racing a horse, I can only attempt to describe the feeling.

Most prominent is the feel of the strength of the animal beneath you as its muscles bunch and quiver, its great hooves thundering into the ground beneath you as it pulls forward at speeds that you realize if you were afoot, would be impossible to achieve.

The greater the speed of the horse, the more precarious your sense of balance upon its broad back, and you find that you have to rise up in the saddle to accommodate the rising and falling of its back as it continues its teeth-chattering gait. But finding your balance upon it, and learning to move in one motion with it is one of the greatest, most powerful feelings in the world.

Add to this the fact that I was surrounded by a seemingly ethereal landscape, made of ice and shadows and moonlight, and that I was racing along behind the one and only Sherlock Holmes in pursuit of a villain, and you will begin to understand the thrill of what I felt, despite the fear and urgency of the situation.

As it was, we had not gone too great a distance before Holmes straightened slightly in his saddle with a shout, pointing vaguely ahead of us.

"You see him, Watson?" he called, and I looked.

I could just make out the dark figure of horse and rider ahead of us, going at a speed that rivaled our own.

Holmes did not wait for my reply but began to urge his mount with renewed vigour, forcing it to an even faster gait that I struggled to match.

The cold air whipped about me, filling my ears and making my eyes water as I hurried to keep up with my friend. My horse was huffing and tearing across the snow, its breaths coming out in steamy billows and thoroughly enjoying the sort of chase it had been bred for.

I looked up again and saw that we were now almost upon Konig. I could make out the small figure of Alfie in the saddle before him, hampering his speed slightly. I prayed that the boy would not fall, for at that speed he would not escape bad bruising at the least.

I felt my jaw clench unconsciously in anger at the sight of the fiend, and wished fervently that I could remove my revolver and fire at him, but even if I were able to make the shot at this speed I could never risk hitting Alfie.

Without warning, Konig pulled his horse sharply to the right and tore off towards a formation that cut its way right down the field to disappear into the woods beyond.

It was a river.

I felt a chill pass through me as I drew even with Holmes and fairly passed him, my mount pulling ahead and out of my control in its enthusiasm.

He was mad - riding his mare straight for it!

I heard Holmes shout a warning behind me, and spurred by my own fear I pulled sharply on my mount's reins. A little too sharply it seemed, for the poor creature let out a squeal of pain and veered to the left, too fast to stop its progress onto the ice.

I cried out in alarm as its broad back rose in an uncontrolled rear, and I felt myself slide backward, my feet slipping from the now-useless stirrups, and then falling through empty air for the space of a second.

My fall was brought to an abrupt end as I connected heavily with the ice of the river. I froze in fear at the throbbing, pulsating feel of it, holding as still as I could.

The water was just there, rushing just beneath us…under this thin layer of condensed crystals.

There was an explosion of sound and water to my left and I cried out again, rolling away – the ice was breaking!

I looked back in terror to see that my mount had come down from its rear directly onto the ice, and that one of its feet had broken through, causing not only a large hole but also a network of spiderwebbing cracks that grew and spread even as I watched.

"Watson, get back!" Holmes shouted from where he had managed to stop his horse at the edge of the river.

But I couldn't…especially now, everything inside me screamed that if I moved at all, the ice would all break loose in an instant and I would be underwater.

This was not the case; the ice, it appeared, was still somewhat solid, for my horse managed to extricate itself with another squeal and in an instant it had pulled away, bolting back the way we had come, leaving me to crouch all alone on the icy expanse with the sound of my heart beating in my ears and the chill bitterness of fear in my mouth.

"Watson, move!" Holmes shouted again, sliding off his horse and running towards the river.

I could not move, I was petrified at the thought of the ice breaking underneath me and plunging me into a snow-swollen river! The ice shuddered, vibrating underneath me…I could feel the roaring of the water below.

"Take my hand," Holmes shouted from behind me, and I turned to look at him. The ice creaked and I began to shake with fear – the entire bank was going to go under, and me with it…

"Watson, listen to me!" he begged, standing on the bank with his hand outstretched. "You'll be fine, just move slowly and take my hand!"

"I – I c-can't," I gasped, as I tried to move and a sharp crack sounded in the direction of the hold in the ice – the cracks were spreading, soon they would reach me…

"Watson, it's not going to break yet, you'll be fine, I swear!" he implored, taking a step out onto the ice as well, his hand still stretched in my direction.

"Holmes, don't!" I shouted, as the ice vibrated under me with the added weight.

"Look, old fellow, it's still solid here," he said gently, tapping with one foot upon the bank beneath him.

I flinched and gasped as the ice vibrated…but it did not break or crack any more.

"It's not going to break unless you get closer to the hole, Watson; this may be a flowing current but at this time in the winter mountain season the ice is thick enough to not give way except in weak spots. Now move slowly, back towards me," Holmes said softly, inching a bit closer with his hand still outstretched.

"I – I can't," I whispered, my heart beating in my ears so loudly I could scarcely hear anything else save it and the water rushing under the hole in the ice.

"Come on, my dear fellow. You can –"

He broke off suddenly, his face hardening and his eyes shooting up over my head in a fierce gleam of rare anger.

"Ah, yet another thing I've found out about you in my research, Holmes," I heard Konig's voice above me and a shiver crawled slowly down my neck. "Your biographer has a fear of water, doesn't he? I did hope to incapacitate him before I finished with you, but I never dreamt it would be so deucedly easy."

I turned to see Konig on foot, skirting a safe distance round the hole in the ice, his revolver pointed in my direction.

"Where's the boy, Konig?" Holmes demanded from behind me, edging to my left in an attempt to get between me and the criminal we had been pursuing.

"Tied to the saddle of my horse, back in the woods there – fairly loosely, he should work himself free in a quarter of an hour or so," the man said calmly. "I'd no intention of actually harming him; he was mere bait for a far larger catch."

"I was aware of that," Holmes snapped.

"Then you are also aware of my real intentions?" the man asked calmly.

His face contorted in a wicked smirk as his gaze fell upon me kneeling on the ice, and he stamped his foot hard, sending a tremour running throughout the bank and shaking me.

I tried not to allow the frightened gasp to escape my lips, but Holmes heard it nonetheless, and he moved to get between me and the nobleman.

"No, stay where you are, Holmes. I want to make sure both of you are within my line of vision – I so dislike surprises, you know."

Holmes stopped, glancing at me, trembling with fear and unable to move. Why could I not conquer this unreasonable terror?

"I was aware that you fully expected and even intended for me to pursue you, Konig," the detective spat angrily. "Your trail was childishly easy to follow, and you have made it abundantly clear that you are now after me personally."

"Bravo, Mr. Holmes. And you must admit, I've become rather effective at hunting you, have I not?"

I gulped down a knot of fear, feeling perspiration soaking my collar, and tentatively moved a hand, freezing once again when the ice shifted under me.

"Stay still, old fellow," Holmes said softly, turning back to Konig after glancing with concern in my direction.

The Bavarian's face twisted into a smile that in another man would have given me grounds to doubt his sanity.

"You know, don't you, Holmes. You know exactly what I intend to do."

My friend's hands clenched into tight fists, and his whole body went fairly rigid. When did speak, it was in a voice that held such intense suppressed rage and emotion that I could barely recognise it as the cold, strident tone I was so familiar with.

"And you will do it over my lifeless corpse," the detective hissed through a tightly clenched jaw.

I stared, my fear forgotten in surprise, as the two men's gazes locked in a wordless battle. What the devil was going on?

"Tempting as that prospect is, Holmes, the alternative is far more satisfying," Konig said with another deathly smile, moving closer to us and causing the icy sheet beneath me to creak and groan. Holmes began to inch closer to me, no doubt hoping to get me to my feet, but Konig fired a warning shot so close to me that I felt the wind of it. Holmes and I both froze instantly.

"I said not to move, Holmes. You would not like to have your friend here go to his grave without knowing your secret, would you?"

"What?"

"Keep quiet, Watson," my friend whispered.

Konig's eyes gleamed wickedly in the bright moonlight. "So you told him nothing, Holmes? Even after the little incident yesterday morning?"

"Enough," Holmes snarled, his voice tight and slightly unsteady.

"Oh, certainly not, Holmes. Doctor, you are aware that it was no accident yesterday morning, that I shot at you while you were running from your eavesdropping expedition?"

I swallowed hard and forced a calm into my voice that I certainly did not feel. "I was aware of it."

"But you do not know why your dear friend here reacted in such a strange manner, do you?" Konig asked with a smile.

"I do not need to know," I snapped, though I could hear my own voice shake as the ice cracked behind Konig, a strand of the webbing cracks spreading a few inches further. Heaven help us all if it decided to break under us…

"Spoken like a loyal friend, Doctor – but you _are_ going to know before I kill you and then your friend," Konig replied calmly, eyeing Holmes as he spoke.

I glanced at the detective to see his face turn absolutely death-white, his hands trembling as he desperately hid them behind his back to disguise that fact from the Bavarian. Worse still, he made no move to stop the criminal from continuing to speak.

"I've done my research on you, Sherlock Holmes. And quite a bit of it, too – everything from your childhood to that fiasco here in Europe in '91. You see, Holmes, I am no fool – I go into my business endeavours prepared to battle my opponent at his weakest points; that was why I targeted Strauss instead of going after his sister; all the strong genes in that family lie with the girl rather than her sorry excuse for an elder brother."

"Get to the point, Konig!" I growled, shifting my cramped limbs and freezing when the icy sheen beneath me creaked in protest.

"Doctor, exactly how much of our dear detective's life are you aware of previous to his meeting you in early 1881?" Konig directed his question to me.

"I know enough," I snapped. What was the man driving at?

"Then let me add to your knowledge," the man said maliciously. "You are aware that your friend spent a couple years at Cambridge University?"

I nodded wordlessly, glancing at Holmes's pale face as he swallowed hard, as if steeling himself to speak.

"Are you aware of why he decided to withdraw from the school?" Sir August asked, toying with the gun he held.

"Konig, for the love of heaven –"

"Ah, so now you can speak, Holmes? Why don't you tell him, then?"

Holmes swallowed again and refused to look in my direction, his shoulders shaking. Konig glanced down at me in triumph, his voice ringing as he spoke.

"He left because of the scandal and the shame, Doctor," the man shouted. _"Because he killed another student."_

I stared blankly, my mind slowly processing - and then rejecting - what I had just heard.

"You are a liar, Konig," were the first words out of my mouth.

"Am I?" the man asked in an intense whisper. He pointed at Holmes's face, which was pale as death, and I could tell he was keeping his mask up with only a great effort.

"I did not kill him," he finally spat in a low voice, tight with tension.

"But you were responsible for his death," Konig cried triumphantly.

"That is not the same thing!" I shouted angrily. For whatever the circumstances had been, the man I knew as Sherlock Holmes would never have willingly taken a life – the man refused to carry his own weapons on cases most of the time, for the love of heaven, wanting me to do so instead!

"Perhaps not the same, Doctor, but it's enough to haunt a man - isn't it, Holmes?" Konig hissed.

The detective's clenched fists were shaking in earnest now, even more so than I was from fear – his from suppressed memories or emotion. Konig turned to me, a dark smile twisting his face into a picture of triumphant hatred.

"You see, I did my research, Holmes," he glanced maliciously at the stunned detective before continuing to me. "Your friend, Doctor, was responsible for the death of a student, a very promising young man in the most brilliant scientific courses. And he was a good friend, wasn't he, Holmes?"

The detective's jaw clenched, but other than that he gave no sign of having heard the villain.

"Your _only_ friend, in fact," Konig added snidely. "And so good a one, that he spent one Christmas holidays with you at your family's country estate, in the middle of your second year."

Holmes swallowed and shot me a helplessly pleading glance to which I did not know how to respond.

"It was during that holiday that you, being even then the type that would never stay out of other people's business, decided to spy on your neighbour whom you suspected of having dealings with illegal drug trafficking. Being the loyal man this friend was and the curiously excitable type himself, your friend accompanied you on those spying expeditions – at your insistence, correct?"

Holmes's face paled even further, if that were possible, and I tentatively tried to move, seeing if the ice felt any more stable and perhaps I could conquer this paralysing fear…I bit back a cry as the bank vibrated, a sharp cracking noise filling the air behind Konig again.

"And then, one day, the neighbour discovered you – suspected you of being poachers, the inquest said later - and he shot the young fellow right there in front of you as you were running from him, didn't he, Holmes?"

I gasped, in horror and not out of fear this time, at the look upon my friend's face – a completely crushed, pain-filled agony that bespoke of a deep open wound that had never quite healed. His breathing was coming far too rapidly, I could see from the short shallow puffs of air emanating from his mouth.

"And it was entirely your fault, was it not? Though the inquest ruled it to be an accident, and because you were trespassing, the man got off with a warning – but the scandal was enough to make you leave the University, wasn't it?" Konig said with a gleam of evil triumph. "You were as guilty of that bright young man's death as if you'd pulled the trigger."

A deep pitying anger roiled inside of me. I'd had enough! Enough of this man tearing into Holmes's very soul and exposing things that not even I was privy to. What did it matter what had happened in the past? It had nothing to do with now!

"That is enough," I shouted furiously. "How dare you, Konig!"

"Please, Doctor, do save the melodramatics for one of your memoirs…Oh, I forgot, you won't be writing any more of them. Pity, my sister was so very fond of your stories," the man replied with a smirk.

Holmes was standing on the ice in the same position, his breathing so rapid I feared he might hyperventilate, his entire frame shaking, his eyes closed and his head bowed toward his clenched fists.

"Holmes," I said softly, and he looked up – but not at me.

Rather he was looking at the figure of the man who had resurrected this obviously traumatic memory more than once over this case – the nightmare he refused to tell me of, the dream on the train, the business this morning – all of the smaller attacks had been for the sole purpose of breaking Sherlock Holmes, of driving him to the point where he had been haunted beyond endurance before finally besting him with a final blow as Konig no doubt was about to do.

"So now do you understand, Doctor, why your friend was so…distraught, yesterday?" Konig asked, taking a few steps closer – so close I could see the moonlight glinting off the trigger of that revolver pointed at me.

"And why I, out of all the criminals you have faced, Doctor, have found a way to resurrect the worst nightmare of the world's greatest detective into a reality for him?"

I stiffened as Konig aimed the gun at my heart, pulling the hammer back to cock the weapon. Every instinct I had screamed for me to move, to roll away, but even self-preservation balked at the fear that the ice would shatter and pull me under into a black icy current – I could not move!

For one frozen instant of time, it seemed that the entire world slowed to watch the horrible nightmare being played out upon this frozen Bavarian river. I was dimly aware of the nobleman saying something further to Holmes, but it appeared as if from a great distance. Then Konig's mouth twitched in a satisfied smile, and his finger tightened on the trigger of the revolver.

My half-frozen, petrified brain had not even realised Holmes was moving until he was between me and Konig.


	44. Midst Winter's Harm

_The wind's on the wold  
And the night is a-cold,  
And Thames runs chill  
'Twixt mead and hill.  
But kind and dear  
Is the old house here  
And my heart is warm  
Midst winter's harm._

_**- **__William Morris (1834–1896)_

* * *

_**Holmes**_

"Watch, Mr. Holmes." Konig said, leveling his revolver at Watson who still knelt, frozen with fear, upon the shifting ice. "Watch it happen _again_."

A wave of ice washed over me, taking away all sensation and sense of self, leaving my mind free to observe every detail of the reoccurring nightmare that was playing out before me. I watched the fear that entered my friend's eyes as he looked down the black barrel of the revolver, a muscle in his jaw twitch as he met death face to face, powerless to resist it. And for a brief moment it was not his pale countenance that I was watching, but another's…already lax in death.

And it was as if all the terror and emotion that I kept hidden from view, that I disconnected from myself so often…came cascading in unison into me so that I could not discern one feeling from another. I was trembling, shaking, my eyes burning as I watched the few seconds that seemed to stretch for an eternity. And in that clear moment of clarity, when thought and emotion were united for once, I knew that I was incapable of letting it happen again, I _could_ not…this was my ultimatum.

There was one other thing within my power to prevent it.

I leapt forward, feeling my boots skid upon the ice and feeling it creak beneath me as my weight shifted. Konig looked up, distracted at the shifting, and his eyes widened in surprise at my approach. I watched seemingly in slow motion as he shifted the revolver away from Watson as I wanted, and pointed it at me instead.

There was the sound of the shot, a noise that I had become so familiar with over the years, and an encompassing, burning pain in my side that forced the air from my lungs and threatened to halt my progress.

And then, time sped forward again as I felt my hands connect with him, shoving him backward. I watched his surprise turn into terror as he fell backward, right into the hole created by Watson's horse. He broke through the water, disappearing in a surge of spray, and then I too was teetering, then falling, unable to keep my balance. I followed him into the water and was engulfed in cold and darkness.

In a way I welcomed it, for I seemed to be feeling too much at once right now, and the cold promised to remove it, numbing my limbs almost instantly as though I'd been paralyzed. I barely registered my need for air, or the shock that encompassed my body, or the pain that continued to burn somewhere down near my stomach.

As it was I did not notice the hands that grasped my clothing until I suddenly realized I was being pulled upward and my head broke through the surface. My lungs reacted of their own accord, gasping and coughing from the water that I had swallowed in my shock, pulling in air that seemed twice as frigid now as before.

And there was a voice, rife with fear and desperation, sounding close beside my ear above the splashing, and another lighter, frantic voice that could only be Alfie's.

"HOLMES! HOLMES, I HAVE YOU! It's all right - I have you!"

The hands dragged me back onto the ice that still shifted beneath us but did no more than crack, turning my head to the side as I choked and coughed, spewing frigid water out onto the frozen surface.

"Easy now, Holmes, I have you. You're all right now, I have you."

I got the impression that he was more reassuring himself with the words than me.

Mine was not the only breath that was heavy and labored; Watson's sounded sharp in my ears, quick and rasping as his hands ran expertly over me, going almost at once to the hole in my jacket, pulling back slightly at the blood that pooled there.

"My God!" he gasped, and with more urgency than before his hands tore open my jacket and waistcoat.

His breathing really was too fast; he would hyperventilate if he were not careful. I opened my mouth to tell him so but whatever words I meant to say were lost in an unwanted groan and a bout of shivering that wracked my body, sending fresh tendrils of pain from my side.

"Don't try to talk, Holmes!" Watson ordered imperiously, though his own voice shook. "Alfie! Fetch Mr. Holmes's horse here! Easy, Holmes, it will be all right."

There was some rustling of movement, and then Watson was stripping off my outer garments, gently but hurriedly. I could not repress a gasp, or the involuntary flinch from his hands as they pressed some cloth against the wound, applying as much pressure as he could against the flow of blood.

"It's all right, Holmes," he soothed instantly. "Lie still."

But I could not…there was something else, something more urgent that nagged at the fore of my mind and refused to leave until it was taken care of.

I moved my hand...I thought I moved my hand, I could not be certain as I could no longer feel it…and grasped Watson's arm. I fought my eyes open and looked up through the darkness at the blurry vision of his pale face. He paused for a moment and looked at me.

I twitched a smile with numb lips. Could he really have forgotten?

"The…ice…W-wat-son." I gasped as best I could, though my voice was frustratingly weak and soft, and punctured by chattering teeth.

He froze, really froze, and his eyes widened. He _had_ forgotten, and I really did smile this time as I realised that he must have had to dive forward and reach into the water up to his elbows at least to reach me. He really was the bravest man I knew, and in his concern for me had completely forgotten his crippling fear of deep water.

I feared that it might return now as he realised once again where we were, but he kept his head and after a quick swallow, he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it round me, keeping one hand over the wound.

"All right Holmes, save your strength. I'll take care of it. Just hold on."

He gripped my collar, and taking a deep, shaky breath, he began to inch backward over the ice. I gritted my teeth and let my eyes fall closed once again, trying to ignore the waves of nausea and fire-like sensation that came with the movement.

Thankfully we were near to the edge of the river, and it was only a minute or two before I heard the crunch of his feet and knees on the snow. Taking a firmer grip, he pulled me up as gently and gradually as was possible to this higher surface.

He waited until my groans and gasps died down before pulling the jacket open once more and anchoring the makeshift bandage down with what I could only guess must be Alfie's scarf.

"Holmes," he said, finishing and laying a hand on my brow.

I managed to open my eyes a second time and meet his concerned gaze…I could just make out Alfie and the two remaining horses behind him – Watson's had bolted in fear after breaking through the river.

"Holmes, we have to get you back." Watson said hesitantly, "As soon as possible, and a horse is the fastest…I don't have any morphine with me."

I gave him a thin smile and gripped his arm, even as my body was wracked with another, violent shudder.

"I…un-nders-stand W-wats-son." I replied. "D-do what you n-need to."

He let out a shaky breath and he bent, reapplying pressure to the wound and slipping his other arm beneath my shoulders.

"Are you ready?"

I nodded, and braced myself as his grip on me tightened and with a tensing of his own shoulders he pulled me slowly upright. My side erupted at once in a blaze of heat, and I cried out at the movement, but thankfully Watson did not stop until I was in a sitting position, gasping and clutching at the wound myself, my face screwed up in pain.

He waited a moment allowing me to get my breath, his own breath and grip shaky.

"All right?" he whispered.

I nodded, sharply, though even this movement increased the dizziness, and there was a border of blackness at the edge of my mind, threatening to overpower my consciousness.

And it was not done yet; in another moment he was pulling me upright, to stand on feet that could hardly support me, walking me as I swayed toward the animal.

I hesitated as I felt the warm solidity of the creature beneath my fingers, and the smell of its steaming, sweaty coat filled my nostrils. I knew that the ideal situation for my wound was as little movement as possible, and that riding a horse would help to diminish that, but staying here would do even more, surely.

But Watson's expertise had already reached the only possible solution…for I was already shivering uncontrollably from the cold, and cold or no there was still the bloodloss to be considered…if the bullet had come through the back…had it? I could not tell…exactly how bad was it?

I opened my eyes a final time and looked at the saddle before me, wishing that both the animal and its stirrup did not seem so high; I knew now how Watson had felt after his accident in the storm earlier.

The last thing I wanted to do was to try and mount that horse…and that was the only course really open to me, as Watson's steady grip reminded me.

I gritted my teeth, which still chattered in my skull, and reached up for the pommel with numb fingers.

Watson moved with me, and in one movement, one lifting, shove from him, I found myself up on the saddle, my own cries of pain dying in my ears and the world swimming before me threatening to fade into darkness.

There was more movement and then I felt Watson at my back as he slid up behind me, intent on keeping me in the saddle, despite the obvious weariness of the horse.

But surely he could not see back there…I was far too tall and there was no possible way I had the strength to sit up so he could slide in front of me.

"W-wats-son." I gasped, intent on making this fact known to him.

I was answered with a grip on my shoulder, and steadying words as he helped me to bend forward over the neck of the horse.

"It's all right, Holmes, just hold on."

He nudged the horse with his knees and at once it started forward like the well-trained beast it was.

I choked back a gasp, and dug my fingers into the rough hair of the mount's mane. Every step, every movement of its gait sent a sliver of pain shooting through me, and Watson was urging it to the fastest walk it could manage.

I did not think I could take it; however lucid I may have been up to until this point, my consciousness now was fading rapidly…I felt warm blood flowing anew down my side…

The last thing I remembered feeling was Watson's grip around my middle, his strong hand still bracing the wound…before I let go of my thoughts completely.

_**Watson**_

Holmes became unconscious almost as soon as the horse started, which I was grateful for; for he was easier to hold when limp and unfeeling, rather than rigid and jerking with pain from the animal's uneven gait.

His collapse alarmed Alfie, however, who rode beside us on Konig's horse, watching both of us with eyes that were too old for his young, pale face.

Konig had not harmed him, thank heaven, and he had indeed been able to wriggle free of his bonds and come to our aid not a moment after Holmes had fallen through the ice.

"Doctor!" the lad yelped worriedly, trying to direct the too-large animal nearer to us as Holmes fell limply forward against the horse's neck.

"It's all right, Alfie," I said, tightening my hold around my friend, checking that the makeshift bandaging was still in place. Even with the cold, the blood had already begun to flow again.

"Alfie." I turned my attention back to our irregular, not slowing the pace of my mount. "You've done more than Mr. Holmes and I could have asked of you tonight, and you've been very brave, but I need you to ride on ahead and tell them we're coming."

The lad sniffed, wiped his nose on his coat sleeve and gave a nod. "You don' need ta explain nuffin' Doctor. Oi can do it."

"Good lad," I said. "Hurry, but be careful."

He turned the animal with some difficulty and with only a little urging it hurried forward into a canter with Alfie clinging to its back with a speed and skill that I would hardly have credited him with.

I urged my own mount into a faster pace, now that Holmes was not awake to feel it. Every moment was of the essence as he was still white and shivering, and not only from blood-loss.

Alfie had not only heralded our coming but had alerted the whole house, and it was in an uproar when I drew the Count's hunting mount to a stop in front of it.

No sooner had I done so than Alfie himself came running up and clung to the huge animal's reins, Ada yipping and barking at his heels.

"Doctor, Oi told 'em," he gasped breathlessly, and that was all I had time to hear before a small crowd drew forward and gathered around us, the Count at its head.

"Herr Doktor," he snapped, taking in the sight of myself atop his favorite mount, which was exhausted and covered in foam and sweat. "What has happened? Where is Sir August and Herr…"

He stopped short at the sight of Holmes, his eyes widening and several of the staff drew forward, murmuring anxiously.

"All right, that's enough, the lot of ye!" said a commanding voice that I had never been gladder to hear, and a moment later Lachlan was drawing forward through the crowd, seemingly none the worse for wear for the blow to the head.

"Lachlan," I said. "I need a room ready, with hot water, and my medical kit."

"Already being done, Doctor," Lachlan said, putting a hand on Alfie's shoulder. "Alfie told us about the river and the shooting. How is he?"

"He'll be all right, I think, but we need to get him inside. Help me."

Lachlan nodded and drew forward, reaching up to take Holmes from the saddle. The seaman looked to the Count. "C'mon mate, I need yer help."

Unused to being addressed in this manner, the Count stood blankly for a moment before coming forward to help, taking Holmes's legs as Lachlan lifted him by the shoulders.

We managed to get Holmes inside fairly quickly to a bedroom, where a roaring fire and a basin of steaming water already awaited us. Lachlan and the Count laid Holmes gently on the bed, and I lost no time in replacing his soaked shirt and trousers and covering him with a blanket, noting that he had not ceased his shivering, and his face was still ghastly white, his breathing shallow and somewhat erratic.

Lachlan stood at my shoulder while Alfie lingered near Holmes's head, biting his lip and watching anxiously.

"Where is Haight?" I asked, pulling open my medical kit and only now realizing that the American was missing.

"He's gone after Mueller." Lachlan said grimly, "Seems he was part of the scheme too, Doctor."

"A fact which I regret to say I had no inkling of until this morning. And Sir August?" the Count asked again, standing a little distance from us.

I felt a chill of anger at the mention of the man and did not bother to repress that emotion from my voice when I answered. "He's in the river."

My small audience watched in silence as I pulled back the coverlet and began to unfasten the soaked scarf and makeshift bandage, both now a deep red.

Lachlan paled at the sight that met our eyes and I felt the color drain from my own face. A scorched, ragged hole showed where the bullet had entered, standing out clearly against the white pallor of Holmes's skin.

I examined the wound for a moment, probing as gently as I dared to discern the extent of the damage…and almost at once felt relief spread through me like the heat from the fire.

"How bad is it?" Lachlan inquired anxiously.

I let out a shaky breath, and tried to summon up some semblance of a smile as I looked up at him.

"It's still in there."

Lachlan raised an eyebrow. "And this is good news, is it?"

"It is in this case. It's lodged against his ninth rib, just below it in fact; it's most likely fractured but its near enough the surface I should be able to lift it out – any more delicate of an operation necessary and I would not be able to perform it with my hands in this condition. There is some internal bleeding, but no trauma to the organs as far as I can see. If it had not gone in at that angle it would have gone straight through him, and done who knows what damage…thank God."

The midshipman let out his breath and lowered his head, perhaps in prayer, I had never thought to inquire whether he was a religious man. There was also a murmur of relief from the Count.

"Do you need anything else, Herr Doktor?" he asked.

"Yes." I said turning to him, "I need quiet, and a steady pair of hands. if Lehmann would consent to help I would be grateful, and no one is to come near this room until I say so."

He nodded. "I shall send Lehmann to you at once."

"Thank you, Count." He turned to leave.

"Alfie." The lad jumped slightly and looked up at me, one small hand lying Holmes's brow.

"I want you to go and wait with Lady Cecilia."

His brow furrowed in distress. "But Doctor…"

"Mr. Holmes will be all right, Alfie, but I have no time to argue. Do as I say. She will look after you." The Irregular hesitated, frowning.

Lachlan gripped the lad's shoulder warmly. "It will be all right, lad. This is no place for you right now; go on."

Alfie sighed unhappily but left the room after giving Holmes's shoulder a brief pat. "Yew take care of 'im Doctor."

"He _will_ be all right?" Lachlan asked me when the door had closed.

"If we can get this bullet out of him, he'll be fine." Without delay I began to remove the bandaging from my hands and when they were clear I proceeded to wash them, cringing at the sting of the hot water.

Lachlan's eyes flickered from them to my face in concern, and I sighed ruefully.

"We could send for a doctor from the village, but I am not willing to wait five hours for one after his fall in the river. I will have to do."

I put some disinfectant on a pad and began to clean the area around the wound carefully. Holmes's shivering had slowed somewhat from the heat of the room, and most possibly the stress of the wound itself.

He gave a sudden gasp as the stinging liquid came too close to the acrid hole and his eyes flickered. He shifted with a moan.

Lachlan's good hand went at once to his shoulder to keep him still and I put my own hand on his brow murmuring reassurances.

"Easy Holmes…it's all right, old chap, just lie still for now."

The eyes flickered again and after some effort, they opened to fix, as if drawn, to my face.

His brows furrowed beneath my hand and he whispered lightly, somewhat puzzled. "Watson?"

"Yes Holmes, you're going to be all right. Everything's fine, and we're going to remove the bullet now, all right?"

He examined my face for a moment or two, then swiveled to see Lachlan, who smiled and nodded reassuringly at him. He turned his gaze back on me, and it was difficult to see those usually sharp eyes dimmed with pain and exhaustion, holding only a fraction of their usual astuteness.

"Konig?" he asked weakly. "And Alfie…was he hurt?" His hand lifted slightly and took mine in a fumbling grip. "Watson?"

"Alfie's fine, Holmes, and so am I…you don't need to worry about Konig anymore."

He swallowed and nodded, closing his eyes and taking shallow gulps. For a moment I thought he might have lost consciousness again until he spoke, his voice still a whisper.

"On the ice…Watson…what Konig said…I didn't…I'm sorry…"

I closed my fingers around his cold hand, returning his grip tightly. "You needn't explain Holmes…I understand. It's your confidence to give or not. It doesn't matter."

Again he nodded and his hand clenched in mine for a moment.

I pulled gently away and reached into my medical bag, pulling out a second pad of lint and a bottle of chloroform.

"The wound is treatable, Holmes, and you'll be all right. I just need you to rest. Relax, and breathe deeply, all right?"

I doused the pad and handed it to Lachlan. "Are you ready?"

Holmes's eyes opened and his thin lips twitched in a weak smile. "When you are, Watson."

I returned the smile shakily and nodded to Lachlan, who placed the pad over the detective's nose and mouth and held it there until my friend's eyes flickered shut again and his head fell limply to the side.

"What now, Doctor?" Lachlan asked, as I resumed cleaning the wound and the door opened to admit Lehmann.

"Keep it there until I tell you to remove it," I said, tossing aside the disinfecting pad and reaching for my tools, trying to ignore the sharp pain in my hands that handling them gave me.

"This won't take too long."

* * *

Three hours later, when the mess of the operation had been cleared away, I sat in a chair by my friend's bed, his hand held firmly in my own. I had rebandaged my hands, which were red and inflamed from using them in such a manner. I myself was shaky and exhausted, reacting at last to the experience on the ice and my own exhaustion, now that the danger had passed.

Holmes lay still and quiet on the bed, his torso bandaged neatly and the wound itself bearing a small row of neat stitches, courtesy of Lachlan himself, since I had incapable of holding a needle at that point.

My friend's breathing was as even and regular as could be expected under the circumstances, and he seemed to bear no ills from his dunking in the river save for a whiter pallor than usual.

He had not stirred since the operation, due in part to the lingering effects of the chloroform and in part to the cold he had experienced.

It had taken longer than I thought, perhaps half an hour, to extract the bullet. The same angle that it had lodged it had not only probably saved Holmes's life, but it had also made the extraction deucedly difficult, forcing us to lift the rib slightly to get to it. Had he not had the sense to twist slightly as he jumped for Konig, he would have taken the shot head-on in all probability and the wound should have been much worse.

The rib itself was fractured where the bullet had struck but I did not think it to be a serious complication; as long as he did not exert himself there would be no reason for it to bruise or puncture the lungs.

Lachlan had left to see that Alfie was all right, and Lehmann to attend to the household in general, leaving me alone with my patient.

The rest of the house had calmed down at last, and I myself was limp with reaction. But I could not rest. Never mind the fact that my friend lay peacefully and tended beside me, I watched him with bated breath, marking the rise and fall of his chest and trying to drive the lingering smells of blood and disinfectant from my mind.

I had come terrifyingly close to losing my greatest friend…just an inch more, a fraction higher or lower or a few degrees more direct of an angle and it would have gone through some vital organ…and possibly been outside of my ability to treat. Even so it had been difficult to perform an operation with my hands in their condition.

For a logical man, he had done an exceedingly foolish thing this night. Is this what the great Sherlock Holmes, the cold, detached mind was reduced to? Charging armed men and taking in bullets at point-blank range?! And all because I had been unable to conquer my fear and had frozen on the ice.

Perhaps I was a hindrance to him…a liability, not only because of my hesitation, but because he would never have done such a thing if he had not had an emotional attachment to me. Taking that in consideration I could hardly berate him for his actions.

Not that that eased my conscience or my frustration with him.

Did he really think so little of himself and so highly of me that he would take such an action? Apparently so, for the evidence lay before me. I sighed and let my head rest against the chair.

I was tired, and longed for assurance and rest…but I could find neither…not until I knew that he would be as he had been before this blasted case had started, not so much physically as mentally and emotionally. As trying as this case had been on the rest of us, it had been designed specifically to cause him distress, and especially with this final blow, this reoccurring nightmare upon the ice.

I hoped that he would tell me of it one day, if only so that I could help to ease his conscience a little. I knew what it was like to lose a close friend, even for it to be under my direction. And it was more than understandable for it to still be haunting to him today, especially as he was reticent enough about his past that at times I found it hard to believe he even had one.

I was broken out of my reverie by a sudden change in my friend's breathing; nothing too perceptible, or anything that would have been noticed had I not been listening to it acutely for the past hour or so. I sat up straight in my chair, and tightened my grip on his hand, feeling a corresponding grip almost at once. I bent over him slightly and saw in the dim light that his eyes had opened lazily and found my face in the darkness.

"Holmes?" I said cautiously, hoping that he was conscious enough to recognise me.

He was, for no sooner had he taken in my pale, shaken countenance then his lips cracked a rueful smile.

"Watson," he returned in a thin croak, his throat dried from the effect of the chloroform. He frowned at this development and I lost no time in pouring him a glass of water and raising his head slightly to he could drink.

He slopped a little over the sides in his eagerness and exhaustion but his airway sounded much clearer when he finished with a sigh.

"Well, Doctor," he said as I settled him back upon the pillows and set the glass aside. "What is your diagnosis?"

I felt a sudden warmth of relief and at once my world seemed brighter, my weariness lifted slightly. He was speaking in the cynical, strident tone that I was so used to, and if he could jest, then his spirits were not damaged.

"You'll live," I answered, pulling the covers back up to his chin.

His smile warmed. "Well, you needn't look so worried then, had you, Doctor?"

I returned the smile. "No, provided you listen to me for once and rest."

He let out a weak chuckle, and gripped my hand again. "That depends on just how much bedrest you intend to inflict on me, old fellow."

I sighed and let myself bask for a moment or two of the companionable silence that settled over the two of us, a very familiar and comforting sensation. Then I forced myself to rise and reach into my bag again to pull out a small dose of morphine; I had not failed to detect the lingering discomfort in his voice as well as the exhaustion - that might have been what had woken him. I should have taken care of it earlier.

As I inserted the needle into his arm and smoothly delivered the dose he spoke in a very sleepy voice.

"How did it go?"

"As well as could be expected. You were deucedly lucky, Holmes."

Another moment of silence, during which I watched him visibly relax under the drug, his face smoothing out in the beginnings of sleep.

"Why did you do it, Holmes?" I asked unsteadily at last, making his eyes flicker once again.

He sighed and forced them open wider, to fix on my face with an open sincerity that I rarely was privileged to see.

"Because, Watson," he said simply, "I could not watch it happen again."

I felt the back of my eyes burn with sudden emotion and I swallowed, finding it difficult to speak.

"Thank you, Holmes."

He smiled again in acknowledgement and in another instant he was peacefully asleep, taking my fear and distress with him.


	45. One Need Not a Chamber to Be Haunted

**_One Need Not a Chamber to Be Haunted_**_  
_  
_One need not be a chamber to be haunted,  
One need not be a house;  
The brain has corridors surpassing  
Material place._

_Far safer, of a midnight meeting  
External ghost,  
Than an interior confronting  
_That whiter host.

_Far safer through an Abbey gallop,  
The stones achase,  
Than, moonless, one's own self encounter  
In lonesome place._

_Ourself, behind ourself concealed,  
Should startle most;  
Assassin, hid in our apartment,  
Be horror's least._

_The prudent carries a revolver,  
He bolts the door,  
O'erlooking a superior spectre  
More near._

_- Emily Dickenson_

* * *

_**Watson**_

I sat still for a long moment, pondering the night's events and feeling a sense of amazed warmth that apparently this man I had for so long single-mindedly defended against all dangers apparently held me in the same regard, to do what he had done tonight.

I did not hear the door open and in consequence jumped at a calloused hand on my shoulder.

"How is he?"

"He was conscious for a little while," I replied, glancing up at the seaman's worried face. "Although he'll have to take the time to recover, there should be no lasting effects."

"Just got a message from the Weissberg constabulary," Lachlan said soberly, taking a seat in a chair beside me. "They found Konig."

"Dead?"

"Quite, the body came to the surface on some rapids downstream. I can't say as I'm sorry, Doctor."

"Nor am I," I whispered, looking at my sleeping friend.

"Want to tell me what happened? Not that it's any o' my business, but yer not looking quite yourself," the sailor said gently.

"Not much to tell…how's your head, by the way?"

"Psh, I've had far worse at sea, much less in one of our cases, Doctor."

"Good," I breathed a sigh of deep relief, feeling some tension drain from my body and leaving a limp weariness behind.

"So…what happened?"

I sighed and ran a bandaged hand through my hair. "He led us to a frozen river, my horse broke the ice…Konig came back and cornered us…"

"And he just shot Holmes in cold blood?"

"Not exactly," I said softly. "He was aiming for me."

Lachlan's blonde eyebrows raised. "I see," was his only observation.

The door suddenly slammed open and Renie Haight stumbled in, a greenish-purple bruise forming across his left eye and a look of triumph upon his face that quickly changed to shock at seeing Holmes.

"What happened?"

"He's all right, got hit by a bullet – cracked a rib, but thankfully the lung wasn't punctured," I said reassuringly.

"The devil."

"You get Mueller?" Lachlan asked eagerly.

"Caught up with him before he'd got halfway to town," Haight grinned. "Old man wasn't exactly spry."

"Looks like he clocked you a good one, though," the seaman observed with mild concern.

"No, don't bother, Doctor, I'm perfectly fine." The reporter waved me back to my chair when I would have risen to attend to him. "I have to say I never suspected the old fellow of being a part of it," Haight went on, a bit sadly.

I processed the fact slowly. "Holmes did say he thought one of the staff was involved, but I never dreamed it would be Mueller…how did you find out?" I asked, suddenly realising I had no idea what had gone on in the Castle after we had left.

"He tried to spring Strauss," Haight replied. "I'd taken him to one of the old dungeon cells down below, and when I went back to check on him later Mueller was letting him out. I had to chase down Strauss before going after him – that's how he got so far."

"What motive would he have had to turn against the Count like that?" I asked, deeply puzzled – for the man had been such a trusted friend of the family. "Did you ask him?"

"No, just dumped him in a cell before running up here when I heard you'd come back. And I sent Keller to town for the police before I did, Doctor. You can interrogate Mueller at your leisure – or actually if you'd rather, we could while you watch Mr. Holmes here."

We all looked up when Lehmann poked his head into the room, his normally sharp and stony features slightly disturbed by the events of the morning.

"Breakfast is being served, gentlemen, if you would care to come," he said quietly before vanishing into the corridor once more.

"You two go on, you've had as rough a night as I," I told our friends.

"Not quite, Doctor, but I know we'd never convince you to leave this room so we'll go. I'll have that fellow send up something for you...and keep the Lady Claudia from barging in here uninvited." Lachlan grinned, clapping my good shoulder and stretching.

I had completely forgotten... "Does she know yet what her brother tried to do?"

"Aye," the seaman said quietly. "Reacted better than I expected...seems she's not overly fond of him due to his gambling and so on, and besides she suspected he was up to no good with the Strauss family anyway."

"I have to say, the Lady Cecilia is a much better sibling," Haight remarked, following Lachlan over to the door.

"Haight, are you certain you do not want me to look at that eye?" I asked in concern.

"No, Doctor, I'm fine. Just take care of Mr. Holmes," the American told me sternly, opening the door for the still-recovering seaman.

I nodded and turned my attentions back to the still figure on the bed as the other two left me alone with my thoughts.

Holmes remained completely at peace, his face pale but free of any stress or pain as far as I could tell, under the effects of the morphine I had given him. He would recover in a week or two enough to return to London, and I had no doubt he would be insufferably grousing about wanting to go home far before that.

But I was more concerned about his mental state rather than his physical. This case had opened up not just this last memory but others as well – and those were the ones I knew of; heaven only knew just what horrors he had been battling for so long on this case. It was no wonder he had been unable to fully concentrate his powers on the matter at hand; my friend was completely unused to feeling much of anything, and to have all these buried memories and feelings suddenly resurrected from their deeply buried graves had to have been a horrible shock to him.

There was a small, hesitant knock on the door a half-hour later, and then it opened to reveal Alfie, carrying a small tray with a cup of coffee and a couple pastries from breakfast.

"Yew 'ungry, Doctor?" he whispered, setting the tray down on the table and moving to Holmes's head to look down at the sleeping detective.

"Not really, lad," I replied softly. "But I haven't taken time yet to see to you, Alfie. Are you all right?"

The child gulped and nodded, casting his eyes down to the floor instead of to my face.

"Alfie?"

Yes, the sound that my ears had picked up was indeed a small sniffle. The poor lad had been all but banished from us for the last four hours, and after a sleepless night and the trauma of what Konig had done I was only surprised that the child hadn't broken down completely by now.

"Come here, lad," I said gently, pulling the trembling boy closer and walking toward the sofa in front of the fire. Once we had sat down, the child shivered and scooted closer to me, and I put an arm round his thin shoulders.

"Young man, you were a brave boy today, you know that?"

"Oi wasn' brave, oi was scared stiff," he hiccoughed unsteadily.

"Are you under some impression, Alfie, that being brave means you aren't frightened?" I asked gently.

"Don't it?"

"Certainly not. You think that Mr. Holmes and I are never afraid?"

"Cor, Doctor, yew could neva be 'fraid of anythin'," the child scoffed, turning a skeptical pair of wide eyes up at me.

I sighed, feeling my face tinge darker with shame. "Did you see what happened there on that river, Alfie?"

"Oi got loose in time to see Mr. 'Olmes tackle the bloke," he whispered with another shiver.

"Do you know why he had to tackle Konig?"

"Because 'e was gonna shoot yew, Doctor," Alfie said simply.

"Yes, Alfie, but usually I am the one who would do such a hasty and risky thing," I said quietly. "But because I was too scared to move, Mr. Holmes did it instead, to save me."

"Yew, scared, Doctor? Wot in th' world would yew be scared of?"

I looked down at the incredulous child and smiled sadly. "We all have fears, Alfie. I happen to be afraid of deep water."

The boy blinked, digesting this piece of news. Then realisation flooded his little face. "An' the river was breakin' up."

I nodded, shifting my position to get a better look at the boy's pale face. He looked down at his shoes for a moment, swinging one leg aimlessly, and then suddenly his head shot up and he grinned at me.

"But yew dove forrard ta catch Mr. 'Olmes when 'e went under, Doctor, so yew see yew weren't all tha' scared after all."

I managed a smile at the lad's simple faith and trust. "Some fears are stronger than others, Alfie."

"Oi know," he whispered. "Oi was scared o' carriages fer so long after me mum and papa died…oi still don' like crossin' streets a' night i' London."

I heard another sniffle, and I tightened the arm I held round the boy's shoulders.

"Is Mr. 'Olmes gonna be oll roight?" the lad asked finally, glancing back at the still figure on the bed.

"Yes, he will be fine, I promise," I said softly. "Now I want you to go back to your room and try to take a nap, Alfie – you were up all night and you won't be feeling well later if you don't. I'll send Mr. Renie to waken you for lunch, all right?"

"Roight, Doctor," the child said softly, tiptoeing back over to Holmes, followed by me. Alfie stood for a moment, watching the detective, before looking up at me.

"Oi sure wish oi coul' be like 'im – 'e ain't 'fraid of anythin', oi guess, th' way 'e tackled tha' fellow," the boy whispered, patting Holmes's shoulder and then tiptoeing slowly out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

It was not for me to disillusion the lad – for I knew Holmes had done what he did because he _was_ afraid of something; very, very much so.

* * *

The next three hours progressed very slowly for me, for I found my mind slightly muddled from a limp reaction and lack of sleep for the last two days. The Count got his household back in some semblance of order, and after making sure that Alfie was napping Lachlan sent Haight off to do the same, offering to spell me in watching the sleeping detective.

Naturally, I refused, and Lachlan did not waste energy in fruitless arguing with me. Instead, he offered to go and interrogate Mueller and to take care of the particulars should the police arrive earlier than we anticipated (with a two hour drive both ways, it would be a while yet).

In consequence, I was the only one in the room when Holmes came back to consciousness again. I had been moving about, putting wood on the fire, replacing my medical supplies, attempting to clumsily pour myself a cup of tea from the pot the Lady Cecilia had sent up to me, and mostly aimlessly, restlessly pacing; when I turned round from throwing another log on the fire I found the detective awake, his eyes bright and alert, and watching me silently with a small fond smile.

I felt my own features relax at the sight of his eyes, back to their normal brightness though a bit clouded from the pain, and I returned his smile as I went back to his side.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, timing his pulse – strong and steady. Excellent.

"All things considered, fairly well," he answered hoarsely, a fit of coughing seizing him as the effort of speaking suddenly strained his ribcage.

"Easy, Holmes," I scolded, slipping an arm under his neck to elevate him as I pushed a few pillows behind his back with my other hand. "You do have a cracked rib, you must be careful not to overdo things."

"As if you were going to permit me to do so," he grumbled, sinking back wearily into the pillows as I removed my arm. "What has been happening?"

I sat tiredly on the edge of the bed. "They located Konig downriver. He's dead, Holmes."

"Good," the detective said with a barely perceptible shiver. I did not ask him if he meant that finding the man, or finding him dead, was good.

"Strauss is locked up downstairs, and Lachlan and Haight found that Mueller has been in on the plot from the beginning – Lachlan is down there interrogating him now," I continued.

Holmes's eyes lit with a spark of interest. "I suspected as much, but I had nothing more than vague surmise on the matter. Though I was at a loss to explain motive from the old man."

"Lachlan said he would take care of the police particulars as well; we shall get the whole story in due time, my dear fellow."

"What about the others, Watson?" he asked, wincing as he painfully shifted his position.

"Alfie and Haight are asleep, and they're fine, Holmes," I replied softly, laying a hand gently on his arm. "It's all over, old chap."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" he murmured, his eyes flickering closed slowly to hide the expression of pain that had filled them.

"I'm going to give you another dose of morphine, Holmes," I began, starting to rise from my position on the edge of the bed. I was stopped by a sudden weak grip as he caught my hand.

"Wait, Watson," he said softly.

I took my seat again on the edge of the bed, looking down at him. "What is it, old fellow?"

"I – I need to tell you, Watson," he said unsteadily.

"Holmes, you do not have to tell me anything," I hastened to reassure him, but he shook his head, grasping my hand tighter.

"No, you…you deserve to know," he whispered. "And not to get the story from such a man as Konig was."

"My dear Holmes," I replied softly. "You are not obligated to speak of it if you do not want to; I promise you I shall never bring it up."

He sighed tiredly, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them once more, dimmed slightly from their normal steely sheen. "No, Watson. I…I _want_ to tell you, I should have long ago, but…"

"I understand, old fellow," I said gently. "You know I will be glad to listen if that is really what you wish."

He gave me a small thin smile before it faded. "Where shall I begin?"

I understood his hesitancy to talk of the matter at all – and I also realised it would probably be much easier on him if I were to ask questions instead of forcing him blunder through it clumsily.

"What was his name, Holmes?" I asked quietly.

He relaxed visibly when he realised I would guide him through the story via questions, and he leaned back and spoke a bit more confidently.

"His name was John Carrol," he began slowly. "We had many of the same classes together, including the advanced mathematics and chemistry. I…I do not make friends easily, Watson, as you know, but chance kept throwing us together until we became acquaintances, and, eventually, rather close friends. The only friend I had in those very early days, actually – well before I met Victor Trevor."

Holmes's face grew more melancholy as he slowly unfolded this memory that had so suddenly been desecrated, torn from his very soul and heart. I sat in silent support, letting the flow of words run their course and hoping that talking of the affair would enable him to begin healing mentally and emotionally.

I saw his eyes take on a faraway look as he went on. "He was an orphan, living with an uncle and aunt before attending the University, and while my parents were still living I had grown rather apart from them and in consequence we found common ground in that both of us enjoyed being alone…until I found I was actually enjoying spending time in his company."

His hand clenched suddenly, and he glanced up at me, his eyes softening. "In many ways, you remind me of him, Watson," he said quietly. "John possessed that same ridiculous swashbuckling streak that makes you accompany me so often without question, and the same enthusiasm about love and life in general that is both annoying and fascinating to a mind such as mine."

His eyes took on a tiny gleam of amusement, and I knew the words were not used in an insulting way. I grinned at him, and thus encouraged he went on slowly, choosing his words with obvious care. His face grew more sober as he met my eyes now.

"Have you ever wondered, Watson, why even knowing each other for sixteen years now, we still abide by that stolidly formal habit of calling each other by our last names?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at me.

I had once or twice wondered, only when his brother or someone commented in amusement on the fact…certainly we knew each other well enough to have used our Christian names if we so chose, but for some reason the habit had stuck ever since and sounded so natural I rarely, if ever, gave it a second thought.

When my brows furrowed, he sighed and looked away for a moment. "It is not out of any wish to maintain a formality or a distance, Watson," he said finally, "but merely that…I am not certain I could countenance attaching his first name on a regular basis to yet another dear friend. I trust I have not offended you…?"

"Oh, my dear fellow," I said softly, realisation flooding over me in a wave so painful that I wished I could do anything to revert the past for him.

He blinked a few times and then looked back at me, taking a deep breath and continuing to speak. "The rest…the rest you know, Konig was correct in what he said," he whispered.

"Not in every particular, certainly," I snapped with more vehemence than I had intended.

"But in the sequence of events, he was right, Watson. One more thing that you remind me of in him – John would follow me anywhere, without question…and I never felt a need to watch my back when he was behind me," he said softly. "I was so very young, and so incredibly foolish...and it was that confounded loyalty that – that caused him to follow me that day…"

Holmes's voice trailed off with a distinct tremour, and he closed his eyes, his hand clenching convulsively in mine as if trying desperately to grip reality so hard that he could forget memory. I could feel the shaking traveling down his arm to mine as he struggled desperately to bring himself back under his normal control while I sat in helpless silence, allowing the emotion to run its course and only keeping hold of his white-knuckled hand in quiet support.

"You understand why I could not remain in that school," he finally went on after several minutes of holding onto me in silence.

"Of course, Holmes," I said softly.

"There was a scandal, and in consequence a rather nasty blowup with my family, and I not only left home for good to come to London but also left Cambridge without finishing my third year. You understand my reticence now about both my past and my family," he continued, coughing for a moment as he moved too quickly on his bad side.

I waited until the fit had passed and he settled back with a choked sigh, looking up at me with a gaze so tired that he did not even attempt to hide the raw emotion surging below the surface.

He was silent, looking at me quizzically, and I knew he would not go further without my gentle prodding.

"And you blame yourself for it," I said quietly. "You vowed to never again allow such a fate to befall anyone in your association…you came to London and set up on your own, banishing all form of attachment whatsoever other than official business ones."

"I retract my statements to the effect that you are incapable of personal deduction, Watson." He smiled a little sadly at me. "You are quite correct, of course."

"And then I entered the picture and pulled your planet off its orbit?"

He chuckled. "Your metaphor is quite apt, my dear fellow, for it did indeed disrupt the solar system of my life, so to speak - I was not accustomed to having any type of gravitational pull whatsoever at that point in time. To be quite forthright, I never thought we would last in Baker Street for more than six months without driving the other to mad distraction. And of course, I was not about to actually let you accompany me into my cases."

"Until the Jefferson Hope case," I supplied, gently nudging the conversation into slightly less painful channels.

"Until then," he agreed. "But even after that, you will recall, it took me quite a while to get used to having you with me. Then came that Morgan gang break-up, do you remember?"

"I shall never forget it," I countered. "You nearly got yourself killed because you were stupid enough to go in for the final operation alone."

He grinned mischievously at me. "And I woke up to a very incensed old soldier shouting at me that if I was going to be such a bloody fool he was going to follow me everywhere I went from then on."

I blushed at the remembrance. "I did warn you when we moved in that I had a hot temper."

"And being the curious fellow I am, I was foolish enough to push your limits," he replied with a slight grin. Then his voice quieted into a more serious tone, and his eyes hardened. "But you realise why I was never overly keen about having you along – the Stoke Moran affair was one of the worst; I did not want a repeat of my worst nightmare being played out before my eyes."

I nodded understandingly, a dozen similar instances running through my mind to fit all the pieces together. "The affair of the Beryl Coronet – you did not tell me you were going to confront the criminal," I ventured.

He nodded.

"And when you were recovering the Naval Treaty for Percy Phelps," I continued slowly, thinking. "You sent me back to London with him, instead of sending him alone or putting us up in the village."

"I knew my quarry was very dangerous, and there was no reason to keep you there if I could handle him alone," he replied. "I followed you to Dartmoor in the Baskerville case as well, more to keep an eye upon you than to actually solve the mystery before your reports reached me. We could list old past cases all afternoon, Watson, but the fact remains that I did not want a repeat of the greatest mistake of my entire life, whether the blame lay entirely with me or no."

He finished and leant back with a limp sigh, no doubt completely exhausted from this abnormally deep soul-searching.

I was silent for a few minutes, processing all I had just learned about my friend, and finally understanding several points that had been puzzling me for years as to his character and his reticence about his past. The many cases over the years where I had been conspicuously absent from the climax…the fact that when I did go along with him, I noticed that he rarely carried a loaded gun of his own (despite the fact that he was every bit as good a shot as I), trusting me rather to do the shooting if the need arose…the unreasonable bouts of intense nightmares over the many years that until now I had no idea of their origin…

"Holmes," I began hesitantly.

"Yes, go on."

"I – I am so sorry that this case brought all this back up," I sighed. "And…I wish that I had not unwittingly played a part in the drama; you certainly did not deserve any of this…I was no more than a weapon to be used against you…"

"You had no control over that man's twisted mind, Watson," he retorted firmly. "He did indeed do his research well, far too well – he knew exactly where my Achilles heel was and how to activate it after years of carefully burying it and protecting the grave. I had thought that particular incident long dead and gone until it was resurrected in my dreams shortly after we arrived…"

My friend dissolved into another fit of coughing, a smothered cry of pain escaping his lips as the motion jarred that fractured rib.

"Easy, old fellow," I soothed, my hand on his shoulder. "You need to rest now, Holmes."

"Very well, Doctor," he said weakly, letting me remove the props from behind his head and settling back gingerly. I prepared another shot of morphine, but he held up a restraining hand.

"I would rather not, Doctor," said he. "I do not want to be completely unconscious if the police need to ask me anything."

I raised an eyebrow, and he grinned defiantly. "Besides, you know better than I that the fewer drugs in my system the better. You should appreciate my effort while it lasts."

"That is in extremely poor taste, Holmes," said I with a glare, but secretly I was rather relieved that he had his sardonic sense of humour back at least. Letting some of this emotional tension go had to have helped him, for he looked a trifle more at peace now than he had when he started.

He merely smiled as I pulled the blankets back up over his arms up to his chin, and a moment later his eyes closed in weariness. I tossed another log on the dying fire before returning, only to see the familiar grey orbs open once again.

"What is it?" I asked, bending over the injured detective.

"Two things," he whispered.

"Go on."

"One, for heaven's sake get some sleep; you look half-dead."

"Is that all?" I asked, quite amused.

His harsh features, lined with pain and fatigue, softened as he smiled reassuringly up at me. "Did I mention that, even with the possibility of today's nightmare becoming a reality, I do not regret altering the course of my orbit?"

* * *

_To be concluded (yes, finally!)._


	46. An Icy Shadow

_Oh! Duty is an icy shadow. It will __freeze__ you. It cannot fill the heart's sanctuary._

_- Augusta Evans (1835-1909)_

* * *

**_Holmes_**

The feeling of free release was a disconcertingly unusual, though very welcome, one. Perhaps there was something to Watson's insistent opinion that talking about rather than harbouring and hiding feelings was far better for one's soul. Certainly my mind was more at peace, my heart considerably lighter after our quiet talk – almost the feeling of being cleansed mentally.

And, too, I found to my surprise that I actually was rather glad I had told him about the affair at last; and his quiet sympathy, compassionate but not pitying, was quite soothing after this nightmarish case to end all horrible cases.

Logically, my brain told me that Watson had to be exhausted – we had not slept much last night, and I knew he never would have fallen asleep while on a watch at my bedside, and added to an obviously draining night and morning this all pointed to a weariness that I knew had to be fighting his iron stubbornness for mastery.

Logically, my brain told me that. But to all appearances, he remained staunchly upright and alert, busying himself with tidying up the room with one eye upon me. I smiled quietly as I watched him, realising afresh that, had all Her Majesty's soldiers been of that character, we should not have lost some of the skirmishes that had cost Watson's comrades-at-arms so dearly.

I glanced over to the door as it creaked open and Lachlan's blonde head and sharp features appeared. He opened his mouth to say something to Watson and then noticed me awake and watching him. The seaman's grin widened.

"'Bout time you woke up, detective. Some of us've been working while you've been sleepin' the day away." The jibe was gentle, and I found myself smiling at his infectious good humour. "The police are here, Doctor. They want to speak to Holmes, from what I could understand of that blasted German."

"Tell them Mr. Holmes has been _shot _and is indisposed," Watson snapped in the tone I recognised as his physician-running-on-low-energy-and-patience voice.

"Watson –" I protested.

"And I'll brook no argument from you either," he growled, turning a warning glare upon me that would make a normal man shrink or flee. As I am anything but normal, I merely grinned at his endearing indignation.

"They're pretty uptight about the whole thing, Doctor," Lachlan ventured dubiously. "And the Count says he and the Lady Cecilia want a full explanation before they do anything with Strauss…and Mueller still refuses to say a word about why he's been in cahoots with this bunch, wouldn't tell me nary a thing…"

"Watson," I began, only to have him turn another fearsome glare in my direction.

"I'll give you that sedative, Holmes, so help me," he threatened. Behind him, Lachlan's eyebrows went toward his hairline in amusement.

"I was _about to say_," I continued, completely unperturbed by the interruption, "to arraign them all in here and _you_ may be my mouthpiece for the time being, Watson."

He blinked in surprise, then incredulity, quirking an eyebrow at me quizzically. I shrugged, gingerly, wincing as a flash of pain throbbed in my side. "You are in possession of all the facts as I am, Watson. You know my methods, draw your own conclusions."

"Oh, please…" he muttered.

I grinned at his growing discomfiture. "It is either that or I summon them and do the expositing myself," I said cheerfully, grinning at Lachlan who was carefully hiding his knowing smirk.

"That is not an option; you are to remain there and rest, those are my orders," Watson growled.

"Call the police, the Count and anyone else who wishes to hear the denouement, Lachlan, and you might waken Haight and Alfie – they shall certainly want to hear the good Doctor's remarkably cogent solution to the affair," I said mischievously, thoroughly enjoying the look of dismay coming over Watson's face to crowd out his weariness with unease.

"Aye, sir." Lachlan grinned, snapped off a sloppily mocking salute, and, with another repressed snigger in Watson's direction, hastened off to fetch the remaining members of our party.

"Holmes, that was a very dirty trick –"

"Oh, come, my dear fellow," I felt my tone and my features soften despite my amusement at his predicament. "I have every faith that you already know what there is to tell. And what you do not know…make it up; you will in the story later, anyway."

He flushed indignantly before ruefully chuckling at my innocent look. "I _never_ make things up in my stories," he protested weakly, fishing about for his ever-present notebook.

"Mm? We both know that ridiculous bit about my singing in the cab in _A Study in Scarlet_ was completely fictitious – _in an open cab_, Watson? Honestly…"

"Hah, so you _have _read it," he snorted in triumph, flipping awkwardly through the pages – or attempting too, for he dropped the book from a bandaged hand and bent wearily to retrieve it.

I rolled my eyes and extended my hand, and he grudgingly handed me the notebook which I opened to the proper page and returned to him. "Of course I read it – to take notes upon what needed improvement. Not that you have ever taken my advice on the matter to heart, mind."

"Oh, I shall, Holmes, I shall…once I begin writing a series of technical lectures on criminology. The _Strand_ will simply _adore_ that."

I snorted but could not be irritated in the least with the familiar argument, or his gentle sarcasm. My dear friend grinned over his small victory when I did not respond and then glanced over the pages of the case notes with a small sigh.

"What if I get stuck on a point?" he asked plaintively.

I shrugged. "Fabricate it, or ask me. Your choice."

"Oh, lovely."

"You could just let me tell them the events of the case–"

"Not going to happen, Holmes. You lie back and rest, heaven knows you need and deserve it," he said softly, and I could see that the notebook in his hands was shaking slightly. He really was exhausted, and from worry over me as much as anything else.

"Make it brief, Watson," I muttered as the door opened and Haight walked in, rubbing his eyes sleepily with one hand and hauling along an owlishly blinking Alfie, "for all our sakes."

"Oi, Mr. 'Olmes!" I barely had time to register the suddenly wide-awake yelp before two big green eyes were taking up a significant portion of my vision as I looked upward.

"Alfie, for heaven's sake, back up a little," Watson scolded with a stifled laugh.

"Sorry. 'Ow're yew feelin', Mr. 'Olmes?" the lad asked eagerly, and I could not help but smile at his apparent joy at seeing me awake.

"Much better than the good Doctor is willing to believe," I said slyly, glancing over at Watson who was now greeting the Count and the Lady Cecilia, motioning them to chairs.

"Cor, 'e sure was worried 'bout yew, Mr. 'Olmes," the boy lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, leaning closer to my ear. "Oi've neva seen 'im so scared than when yew fell throo tha' 'ole in th' ice. Yew sure you're feelin' oll roight?"

I smiled and put a hand on the boy's thin shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. "Quite, Alfie. The Doctor told me you were a brave boy last night – well done."

A wide grin split the child's face neatly into halves. I glanced at the doorway. Oh, dear. I could feel my eyes narrowing, and I looked back at my little urchin.

"Alfie, would you be willing to do me a great favour – and Watson too?" I asked, lowering my voice to a very serious, important whisper.

The child's eyes grew even bigger, if that were possible, and he nodded solemnly. "'Course, Mr. 'Olmes. Wot is it?"

"Could you…rescue Watson from that dreadful woman?" I asked, gesturing toward the Lady Claudia, who was apparently in the process of latching onto my frantically helpless friend.

Alfie's face paled under his freckles. "Blimey, Mr. 'Olmes…" he moaned, but the child reluctantly detached himself from my bedside, bent on his mission.

Between the child's efforts (including his spilling a glass of water on the floor and stepping on the Lady's hem) and Lachlan's rather brusque shoving a scowling Strauss into the room behind Mueller and three men who obviously were two uniformed policemen and one plainclothes detective, the Lady's rather emotional questions about particulars regarding her brother's death in the river were cut short, thank heaven.

The plainclothesman, a shortish, stout fellow with seven children, two longhaired cats, and a fondness for Bavarian beer, if my deductions were correct, turned and started to address me, only to bristle and draw himself up to his less than impressive height when Watson stepped protectively in-between him and the bed I lay upon.

"Mr. Holmes is not to be disturbed, Inspector…?"

"Wagner," the little man said shortly. "Karl Wagner. Herr Doktor, I have questions that must be answered –"

"And Dr. Watson is more than capable of answering them, Inspector Wagner," I said dismissively from behind the two men. I decided asking the man if he were related to the composer by the same name was not in the best of tastes at the moment and instead continued. "I am here only as a last resort; you may direct all your queries to him."

The little fellow looked over Watson's shoulder (as best he could) at me and then subsided with a grudging nod, seating himself in a chair across from the sullen Strauss and unusually calm Mueller, who were being guarded by his two policemen.

"Let us make this brief and to the point, ladies and gentlemen." Watson began to detail the events of the evening in clarity and vividness, and I hid a fond smile – even in a bare police account of the facts, he was and always would be the very best of storytellers, one that could captivate an audience so well that disbelief of his tale never even crossed a man's mind.

The man Wagner listened intently, occasionally scribbling in his notebook and glancing at Strauss or the Count. I glanced at the Lady Claudia, expecting to see a grief-stricken reaction from the woman at some point in Watson's narrating how her brother met his demise, but to my surprise (and deep disgust) the woman appeared to be placid enough, even bored as she looked languidly about the room. Truly there appeared to be no love lost between the two siblings. I was certainly glad Fate had never hated me enough to grace me with so tasteless and callous a sibling.

I finally closed my eyes as weariness overtook me, but I kept my ears alert and listening as Watson began to slowly outline the points of Strauss's confession to the police and the Lady Cecilia. I noticed he was very guarded in his statements and made no direct reference or specifics to the blackmail, for the sake of the lady's reputation, merely saying that he had been an accomplice of Konig's.

My heavy eyelids flew open suddenly as Strauss's angry voice interrupted Watson's calm and intelligent explanation of the evening's events.

"Now look, Doctor, I'm not guilty of anything here other than the blackmail," he bellowed angrily. "You can't have me in for anything Konig did!"

Watson started to reply but was cut off by a rather bored-looking Inspector Wagner. "Accomplice before and after the fact, Strauss. Do stop that blathering."

But the damage had been done, as I could see from the sudden quizzical expression on the Count's face and the sharp intake of breath from his fiancée.

"Blackmail? What blackmail?" the former asked Watson.

The good Doctor stumbled over his words a bit, attempting to gloss over the matter and glancing helplessly at me.

"Well, you see, Count…that is…"

"I was blackmailing your fiancée, Heinrich," Strauss interjected with an evil smirk at his sister. "Are you aware that you're marrying a tainted woman?"

Watson's face flushed in sudden righteous anger, but the Count beat him to whatever he was going to do. The nobleman reached down and with one hand hauled a now-squeaking Strauss out of his seat and let him hang in the air by nothing but his collar and tie. I saw Haight shift uneasily in his chair, but Lachlan reached out a hand to stop him from interfering.

"You know, Strauss," the Count said deliberately, and with more chillness in his voice than was howling outside, "from the moment I met you I knew I did not care much you. Now I really would love nothing more than to throw you out of that window there."

Strauss's eyes widened in something more of fear than I had seen from him yet as he wheezed and tried to break the nobleman's hold on him.

"I really would not recommend any window-throwing with the police in the room, Count Austerlitz," Inspector Wagner drawled boredly, doodling in his notebook.

The Count ignored the official and slowly lowered the struggling man to the floor, and then threw him back into his chair. "I assume there is an explanation for your atrocious behavior and statements," he spat at Strauss in a deathly tone, before glancing back at his white-faced fiancée.

"Oh, there definitely is," the man smirked, leaning back into his seat, now completely insufferable again once the pressure had been removed.

Watson had the good sense to not interrupt, since this was bound to come out anyway, as the woman's brother detailed the sordid tale to the Count – in considerably more vividness than the Lady had told it to us. Throughout, the Count stood with his back against the wall, arms folded commandingly across his chest and a carefully blank expression upon his aristocratic face.

Lady Cecilia was silent, twisting her handkerchief in a pair of trembling hands, when Strauss had ended his story. She did not look at her fiancé.

"Are…you…quite…finished?" the Count asked through clenched teeth.

Strauss smirked again. "Quite."

"Heinrich, you have to believe me," the lady said, obviously on the verge of tears, as she rose and went to the Count's side. "The worst did not happen, I swear to you…"

The Count tore his attention away from the complacent blackmailer and whirled upon his fiancée. I saw Watson's shoulders slump in dejection, no doubt cringing at the thought of what was about to happen – for all our efforts to keep the thing quiet, it was bound to come out at some point in the conclusion and we both knew it. That did not make it any easier to bear, however.

But the nobleman looked at his trembling fiancée for a long, long moment. Then, to my utter surprise and great discomfort, he bent and kissed the woman.

I heard a muttered exclamation of disgust from Alfie and an immature (and probably inappropriate) snickering comment from the young American before the Count stepped back and looked at the lady.

After darting a look of deep disgust and loathing toward Strauss, he turned his attentions back to the Lady Cecilia and spoke calmly. "I am not the best of men, Cecilia…" he said slowly. "But I should like to think I am a good enough one to know to place blame upon the person who deserves it. And," he motioned for the woman to desist when she would have protested, "and even if it were to be upon you…I am not marrying within my usual class, my dear, because of _love_ and not for anything else. The past cannot and will not change that."

I closed my eyes in some distaste at the sentimental display, though I did respect the man for his decision. _Watson_ no doubt was thoroughly enjoying this to the core of his romantic soul.

I cracked one eye open slightly at the silence, in time to see Strauss's jaw drop in disbelief and a look of pure, clean relief flood over the Lady Cecilia's worried countenance.

"Admirable sentiments, Count," I heard Watson say. "But touching as the situation is, there is still much to be explained, so with your permission I should like to continue…?"

I stifled a laugh in my pillow, for the dear chap sounded so much like me it was positively uncanny.

"Pray do so, Doctor," Wagner said a trifle impatiently.

"As I said, Strauss was indeed responsible for the blackmail, and the Lady Cecilia here for the ghostly woman, in order to make the legend appear sufficiently real that the Count would enlist our aid in solving the mystery," my friend went on.

"Why did you not tell me, Cecilia, instead of bringing this legend to life?" the Count asked sorrowfully.

"I – I was afraid you would not understand," the lady whispered. "And I did not want your reputation to suffer, _mein Schatz_."

"My reputation is of little importance to me compared to your safety, Cecilia," the Count replied with vehemence.

I had been watching Watson during this discussion, and in consequence only turned my attention to the still-silent Mueller when my friend's eyes suddenly lit up as they flitted over to the elderly butler.

"That's is," Watson breathed in quiet excitement.

"What's it, Herr Doktor?" the Inspector queried eagerly.

"That's your motive, Mueller," Watson fired the accusation at the old man, who was still sitting stiff and unperturbed, though coolly angry, in his chair. "That's how Konig enlisted your aid, playing on your feelings about this marriage!"

I smiled quietly, for I knew he had at last hit upon the motive that I suspected from the first and that was now evident in the man's cold anger smouldering below the surface as he watched the Count and his fiancée in their loving attentions.

I closed my eyes and lay back wearily – Watson no longer needed me to be alert in case he got lost in his explanations.

"Explain yourself, Herr Doktor," the Count stated.

"Your butler here has been in your family's service for generations, by his own admission the night we arrived," Watson replied calmly. "He has shown himself to be loyal to the family name above all else – so much so, that when he learnt of the lady's unfortunate encounter those years ago he was horrified at the thought of 'the young master' marrying – I beg your pardon, my Lady – a woman with that kind of a past, slight though it actually was."

I could almost hear the blush in my friend's tone as he spoke this last quietly and apologetically.

"Mueller?" the Count cried.

"This, added to the fact that, in his eyes, you were already marrying 'below your station', Count," Watson went on, "made him a more than willing accomplice to breaking up the marriage by any and all means possible, fair or foul."

"I wished none of you any real harm, sir," Mueller's calm voice broke the deathly quiet that descended momentarily.

"No real harm?" the Count thundered. "You had to have been more than slightly responsible for the things that have transpired here!"

"Not so, sir. I did no more than order supplies, send messages, and serve as an alibi for Master Konig," Mueller replied. "All I wanted was for the marriage to be called off, sir, not to cause any real harm to any of you."

"You had to have put that hallucinogen in Mr. Holmes's firewood," Watson snapped angrily.

"Yes, sir," Mueller replied coolly. "But it is not a deadly drug, merely temporarily discomfiting."

"I suppose you ordered the dry ice and so on, as well?"

"Yes, Herr Doktor. But I did no more than that, I give you my word of honour."

"Your word of honour?" the Count's voice bounded off the stones of the room.

"He is correct, Count," Watson said quietly. "I believe him."

"I'm not so sure I do," Inspector Wagner snorted.

"I had no wish to do real harm, sir," Mueller protested, his unemotional voice taking on a more pleading tone. "I promise you, sir, I had no idea what Konig was planning until he actually performed it. My understanding was just that he was going to frighten or blackmail the Lady Cecilia into leaving you, sir, not that he was going to murder or do serious injury to anyone!"

There was a few moments' silence in the room, broken by pacing footsteps – quick and quite even, so they could not be Watson's; probably the Count.

"What can you charge him with?" the Count asked coldly.

"At the most, accomplice before the fact to attempted murder," Wagner said boredly. "At the least, embezzlement of the estate's funds to order dry ice and so on – harassment and perhaps assault if Mr. Holmes wishes to press charges for whatever the Doktor was talking about, a drugging."

"Sir…" Mueller's voice was rather pathetically pleading now. "I…I was wrong, sir, in what I did, I know that now. I did not know how deeply you felt about this young lady…I was merely trying to uphold the standards of your dear father…"

"Enough, Mueller," the Count snapped. His pacing had not stopped during this, and for a few long moments it continued, back and forth, back and forth…

Then the steps stopped.

"With Konig dead, and Strauss here being charged with blackmail and no more, I see no point in destroying fifty years of family service over this," the Count finally said in a low voice. "I cannot answer for Mr. Holmes's pressing charges, but…out of respect for my father's friend – not for you, Mueller – but for him, and for the sake of our family's longstanding reputation, I shall press none."

"Mr. Holmes?" I heard Wagner ask.

I opened one eye and saw Watson glancing at me quizzically. I smiled at him briefly, tiredly – my eyelids felt so very heavy now – and nodded. He flashed me a grateful smile in return and turned back to the police official.

"We shall do the same."

I heard a small intake of breath from the elderly butler.

"But you will leave my service immediately, Mueller," the Count said in a deathly tone. "I will not discharge you and will give you recommendation due to your care for my family, but when I marry I do not wish to have my wife under the same roof as a man who cared so little for her. You have two weeks to leave my employ."

"Yes, sir," the butler said in a subdued, resigned voice. "_Danke_, sir."

"Is there any point I can make clearer to you, gentlemen?" Watson asked quietly after an awkward silence.

"Not at the moment, Doktor," Wagner said with a bored sigh. There was a rustling of papers as a notebook shut, and a jingling of handcuffs as the policemen probably pulled Strauss to his feet. "But we may need you tomorrow or the day after to make formal statements."

"Of course."

"Lady Claudia, I do apologise but I must ask you to return to town with us – to see about your unfortunate brother," Wagner went on, not unkindly.

"My brother was not unfortunate, Inspector," the Lady's voice was filled with only slight regret, more like well-bred irritation. "From an early age he has been on a path we all knew could only end in disgrace. Life is full of choices, and my brother obviously made the wrong one – it was inexcusable, and I should like to apologise for him, Cecilia, Heinrich…Doktor."

"You are not responsible for his actions, Lady Claudia," Watson replied gracefully, though I noted with amusement a slight rise of panic in the back of his voice; the woman probably was advancing on him.

"No apologies are necessary, Claudia. You will still always be welcome here," Lady Cecilia added kindly.

After a few moments of scuffling about, the door shut. I opened my eyes to see the Count and his wife-to-be looking at Mueller, who was standing with his grey head bowed, suitably chastened.

"Heinrich," the Lady said softly.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I do not mind if you wish to keep Mueller in your employ – I am willing to prove that I can be worthy of his opinion of your family," the Lady said with a slight toss of her proud head.

Mueller glanced up in deep surprise. But before the Count could respond to his fiancée, the elderly man looked the woman in the eyes and spoke sadly.

"Nein, my Lady. As Lady Claudia said, life is full of choices, and I see now I made the wrong one. I wish you both every happiness," he said softly, turning and leaving the room without another word.

I glanced over and saw that Alfie's little eyes were filled with tears as he watched the man leave with slumped shoulders. To think that we had left the boy alone with that man on more than one occasion gave me a chill at the thought of what might have happened, though obviously the old fellow was not physically dangerous.

The Count watched as the door shut and then turned back to his fiancée. "We will discuss this further later, Cecilia. Doktor, I am sorry we took so much of Mr. Holmes's recovery time in this conclusion; we shall leave him to rest now."

"Many thanks, Count." I could hear the intense relief in Watson's tone and closed my eyes, relieved myself that it was all over at last.

"Please, get well quickly, Herr Holmes," I heard the lady's voice softly before the door shut once more.

"Right, well we'd best be getting along too. Get some sleep, Doctor, heaven knows you need it," Lachlan said, the chair creaking as he heaved himself out of it.

"Haight," I heard Watson say softly.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Take care of the boy this afternoon, will you? And…if he wants to talk to Mueller, make sure he doesn't do it alone – I just don't like the idea."

"Of course, Doctor. We'll see you later, for dinner?"

The door shut once more, softer this time, and I heard a deep prolonged sigh before the creaking of the chair next to my bed.

"Holmes…are you asleep?" he whispered softly.

"No, my dear fellow."

I opened my eyes and met his, which were pained and troubled in addition to being dreadfully weary. "You did very well, Watson. I do need to recover quickly, else you may be rivaling me for my occupation."

I was disappointed, and a bit concerned, when he only barely cracked a smile, one that did not come anywhere near reaching his eyes.

"My dear fellow," I began gently.

"Misguided loyalty," he interrupted distractedly. "Why in the world…Holmes, I just don't understand sometimes."

"Understand what, old chap?" I asked, trying my best to remain awake and alert though I wanted nothing more than to just close my eyes…or take something else for the pain, for it was throbbing dully in my side now.

"Understand why…why people make their lives so complicated, why do they have to live in deceptions and mistrust?"

Watson being philosophical was usually quite illuminating, and made for excellent post-dinner conversation. But when coupled with drained emotion and energy, it invariably was not a good combination for either of us.

"You spend your life trying to help people, Holmes," he said slowly, "that half the time could solve their own problems just with honesty and trusting each other instead of having ulterior motives. Why can people not learn to live with the truth, instead of deception?"

I took a long slow breath and then laid a hand on his arm.

"Because…because the truth hurts, my dear Watson," I replied with immense regret. "Because usually it is easier to ignore the truth than to face it. I of all people should know that, after three years of living a lie."

His eyes widened in sudden realisation, and then his face flushed in embarrassment. "I did not mean –"

"No, I hardly thought you did," I hastened to assure him. "I was merely pointing out that not everyone, my dear friend, has as honest and forgiving a nature as you obviously do. Sometimes it is simply not that easy to be loyal and to see where one's loyalties should lie first."

He nodded slowly, his brow clearing somewhat.

"Do not allow Mueller's involvement and his misguided loyalty to depress you, my dear fellow; as he said, he made a choice. The case is closed, and all else is out of our hands now and in the hands of that rather atypically excellent nobleman."

A small smile crossed his face at my obvious semi-sarcasm, and he rose from his chair with the air of a man who leaves the inevitable behind him.

"Do you need another dose of morphine, Holmes, or at least a small pain reliever? You were moving about rather uneasily through that interview, don't think I didn't notice."

I nearly laughed but refrained, not wanting to jar my damaged rib. Honestly, the sharply observant fellow who was now bending over me in concern was nothing like the slower, denser man he portrayed himself to be in those embellished memoirs the public so loved.

"No, my dear fellow, I believe I shall just attempt to get some rest, and I recommend you follow my example," I replied, feeling my eyelids droop even as I spoke, my voice slowing in weariness.

I felt the blankets come up round my shoulders, making a cocoon of warmth round me to guard from the chill. A sudden crackling told me my friend had tossed a few more logs on the fire, and a small squeak bespoke of the window shutters being closed, blocking out the bright sun.

Then I heard a long weary sigh and a creaking and groaning of weight upon the couch-springs, telling me he had finally given in to the drowsy pull of the sofa in front of the fire, within call if need be.

And only when I could hear heavy, rhythmic breathing from that direction did I finally allow myself to succumb to welcome sleep at last, content in the knowledge that all was right again.

For, after all, with assistance from a man such as my dear Watson, no ghosts need apply.

* * *

_And only the epilogue left!_


	47. Epilogue

_First off, the delay in getting this up falls entirely upon me, as PGF had her part of it done for quite some time. I plead lack of time (literally, I wasn't home but maybe two hours a day this week other than sleep time), writer's block, and slight laziness and not being in the mood. Very sorry it took so long to get this up, but hope you enjoy it despite the wait._

* * *

_**Watson**_

It was a week later when I deemed it safe enough for Holmes to make the journey back to London. Indeed, I think I would have been hard-pressed to keep him at Weissberg any longer despite the Count's and Lady Cecilia's offers to stay, though the Lady herself had returned only that morning to Vienna, now that her brother was no longer in the Castle as her escort.

This only made Holmes more eager to leave, for he feared not only intimacy with clients, but also the sort of domestic bliss that would no doubt accompany the upcoming wedding. This combined with his boredom convinced me that a longer stay would only cause him to aggravate his health and I lost little time in securing us tickets for the passage home.

The morning of our departure was grey and drab, the sky heavy with a season of threatening storms that had really only just begun; this thought only made me long more for England and the coastal winds that kept such storms from our own shores.

It took me little time and incentive to pack our things, and soon they were loaded on the sleigh…however, when the final moment for departure came it was with mixed emotions, for due to the unfortunate size of the sleigh it was here that we had to part ways with our friends, and of course Alfie had grown quite attached to certain aspects of the estate itself.

Lachlan and Haight had stayed out the week with us, both refusing to budge until the official matters had been taken care of and it was clear that Holmes was out of immediate danger. And now as we ourselves prepared to leave, they saw us to the sleigh where Holmes was already bundled in his winter clothing and several blankets for the journey.

"You will stop in London on your way home," said my friend menacingly to the seaman, who stood by with a melancholy expression on his weather-beaten face. "Or we will come and find you."

Lachlan clasped Holmes's gloved hand in his own warmly. "I believe yeh. And I can promise you…after this little adventure the most excitement we'll be having is trying new foods at supper. Right, Renie?" He turned his head to give the reporter a pointed look.

Renie looked up from where he was trying to pry Alfie's arms from around his knees. "Right, don't worry about it, Mr. Holmes, I'll keep him in line."

Lachlan snorted and, after watching Renie's fruitless efforts, he gently tugged the Irregular loose and ruffled the boy's hair.

"You'll see that these gents make it safely back to England, will you lad? Only I wouldn't trust anyone else and Mr. Haight and I have some business to finish up here in Europe."

Alfie sniffed and nodded, making a valiant effort to halt the tears that brimmed in his eyes. "Oi will…" After a moment his composure crumbled again and he wrapped his arms once more around Renie's legs.

The reporter, his own eyes suspiciously bright, sniffed loudly and patted his head. "Have fun going home Alfie; I'll bring you something when we get done here."

The mention of a potential gift did a little to lift the lad's spirits and he nodded against the reporter's coat, releasing him at last.

"Oi'd like somefin from India, Oi've been reading 'bout the snakes they 'ave there."

The thought sent a chill up my spine…really…that was the last thing the boy needed, a hooded cobra.

"Goodbye, Haight," I said with regret, shaking the reporter's hand myself and smiling warmly. "And thank you for all your help."

Haight's grip was firm and enthusiastic. "My pleasure, Doctor. I'll be seeing both of you again soon. Just as soon as I figure out how to keep this old salt here out of trouble enough for his injuries to heal completely."

Lachlan snorted. "You act as if this sort of thing happens often."

"Its only been seven months since the _Friesland_," I reminded him with a pointed look at his arm.

He grumbled under his breath but said nothing more, making me smile and Holmes chuckle outright.

"Keep up the good work, Haight," my friend said. "It has been a pleasure working with a fellow as perceptive and intelligent as yourself."

"I could more than say the same, Mr. Holmes," Haight said, putting a hand to his hat. "I can't say it hasn't been a something of a dream of mine since I first started out."

In a rare display of emotion, Holmes' pale cheeks coloured somewhat and his smile was genuine when he nodded in reply to the young reporter.

Lachlan smiled and tugged the lad away from Holmes after a moment. "All right, lad, we'd best let them be off, you're not a well man yet, Holmes."

I coughed at this, and Lachlan shot me a glance. "I'm a sight better than he is, Doctor. But I'll try to rest a bit if it'll keep yeh happy."

"It would be a great relief to my mind, yes."

"All right then…you just make sure he gets home in one piece, will you? The world's not ready to get along without its only consulting detective yet."

"Or his Boswell, for that matter," Renie said with a grin at me.

I smiled one last time and gripped the sailor's hand. "Goodbye."

He nodded, gave a firm shake and stood back. "Good luck."

I climbed up and sat down in the seat beside Alfie, and with a light flick of the reins and a crack of the whip we were off, leaving the figures of our two friends increasingly dwindling in the distance. Alfie turned around in the seat and waved as we drew away, calling out reminders to Renie about his snake and to "Give the ruddy dog a pat for 'im."

I watched until they had vanished and then turned my attention to my two charges, making sure they were comfortable.

Alfie, now that he was finally on his way, seemed as though he would pass into brighter spirits soon, and the instant that the castle and the grounds were out of sight I saw Holmes visibly relax and settle back against the seat, closing his eyes.

I watched him, but not without any real concern for his safety. Physically he was healing nicely and as for his mental and emotional health, the further and sooner he got away from the place the better.

I could recall few times when I had seen him so gaunt and worn as he appeared then. This particular case had taken a great deal out of him…I could not be sure to the extent of the damage, for he was reticent about the affair as he always was. I could only surmise.

After a moment or two his eyes opened again and fixed on my face, as though he had sensed me watching him.

He smiled, and I was reassured to see that the expression was genuine.

"Don't worry, Watson." he said a trifle wearily. "I am quite all right."

I nodded but continued to watch as his eyes soon slipped shut again and at last his head lolled against the seat, unconsciously swaying with the movement of the sleigh.

Momentarily contented, I let myself rest a bit and closed my eyes, leaning my head back and taking my last few hours' worth of crisp Bavarian air.

* * *

The evening of the next day found us back in London at long last, dropping a very hyperactive child off at his grandmother's rundown but clean little tenement. At the sudden onslaught of fervent German that assaulted me as the door opened to reveal the elderly lady, I was grateful I had had the chance to practice my ear for the language the last month.

Alfie hugged his grandmother tightly, spieling off a long string of excited, stumbling words about his travels and adventures, much of which was highly exaggerated. His little grandmother's eyes grew wide as she glanced apprehensively at me, and I hastened to explain that the boy was perfectly fine, and we were sorry he had taken it upon himself to stow away with us, etc., etc.

I handed over Alfie's little valise with his new clothes in it, telling the longsuffering lady to keep it in repayment for being deprived of her grandson for the last four weeks – this with a stern look at our errant little urchin – and after being thanked profusely and extricating myself from a firm hug by the lad, I finally made it back to the cab where I had left Sherlock Holmes, bundled firmly against the late January wind.

The vehicle had clopped icily along the slushy streets for a good three minutes before he spoke, his breath puffing in slow clouds as he did so.

"We must begin to limit those children, Watson," he said with ponderous sobriety, as if only just speaking a thought that had long been maturing in his mind.

"Limit them?"

"Their activities for me, at any rate, Watson," he replied with a small sigh. "I should have sent him back the moment I found him, and I have come to realise that with those children's aid comes a great responsibility upon me of keeping them safe. A difficult balance, that, between using their services and keeping them out of relative danger."

I was silent, allowing him to turn over his words in his mind before voicing them.

"Moreover," he continued in a quieter tone, "the days of the Baker Street Irregulars are waning, my dear fellow – things have changed, and while there will always be lads in need of a quick copper or two, they have not the organization that Wiggins's little gang had five years ago."

"I imagine things rather fell apart for that bunch after your 'death', as they did for many of us," I ventured softly.

He sighed, sending a long, weary cloud of air swirling about us. "Quite so," I heard his murmur before a chilly silence settled over the cab, broken only by the jingling of harness and sounds of late-night traffic around us.

I had telegraphed Mrs. Hudson to expect us that night, and it was with a sense of positively joyful cheeriness sending a warmth spreading through me that I saw every light in 221B Baker Street was on, casting a warm welcoming glow upon the snowy exterior.

I hopped down from the cab and paid the driver, returning to assist my friend in stiffly climbing down from the seat. Despite his protests all the day that he was perfectly fit, he remained anything but and I could tell from the way he leaned too heavily upon my arm that the journey had wearied him nearly beyond reasonable endurance.

Mrs. Hudson had the door open before I could even think of reaching for my keys, exclaiming loudly as she always did when we returned from a case in worse condition than we started out.

"Doctor – Mr. Holmes! Bring those bags right straight in here, cabbie! Doctor, what –"

"It is quite all right, Mrs. Hudson," I hastened to assure her as we stumbled into the warm, cozy hall light.

"Really, you should be accustomed to our straggling in here at all hours in these conditions by now," Holmes interjected with a tired smile. I felt a tremour travel through my arm, transferred from him as he shivered under his coat.

Our worthy landlady's sharp eyes had not missed this, and she shooed us up the stairs without further ado, promising to have a hot supper brought up in a half-hour, as soon as the roast was done.

So tired was Holmes that he made no protest when I settled him in his favourite chair in front of the fire, took his outerwear and jacket which were stiff with cold, and helped him into his dressing-gown and slippers. I even received a weary murmur of thanks before his eyes closed and he settled back with a sigh of something near contentment.

I leaned toward the warm glowing coals in the fireplace, rubbing my hands together. Then I saw that Holmes was still shivering, no doubt still exhausted and in some pain from the arduous journey made with a damaged rib, not to mention the mental tension that still held a residual icy grip upon his senses.

I went into his room and pulled an extra blanket out of his wardrobe, returning to the sitting room to drape it about his shoulders and snatching the one from the arm of the settee to place about his legs. He only stirred sleepily but did not open his eyes, and I tiptoed out of the room so as to allow him to rest before attempting to eat our supper.

I busied myself in moving our bags to the proper locations, my hands now having nearly healed, leaving only a few tender areas which I was still keeping covered with a light bandage. I forced myself to unpack my things, knowing full well that I would certainly not feel like doing so in the morning, and I was very glad indeed when the distasteful task was finished. Then I returned to the cozy sitting room and stood for a moment basking in the comforting aura of home and hearth.

Holmes blinked a few times and sat up a little straighter, glancing at me. "Mrs. Hudson brought up tea, Watson, if you would care for some," said he, beginning to rise with a glance in the direction of his bedroom.

"No, just sit there," I admonished, crossing the room in one bound and pushing him gently back into the armchair. "What is it that you need, I'll get it for you."

"I am not an invalid, Doctor," he protested, but completely without either irritation or real vehemence.

"Yes, yes. Now what were you going to get?"

"Very well," he sighed, relapsing back into the chair. "There is a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with red twine in the trunk under my bed, Watson, if you would be so kind as to retrieve it for me."

"Certainly."

After ten minutes of rooting around in heaven alone knew what in Holmes's trunk's disheveled contents, I located the small packet, roughly the size of a large book. I shoved the trunk back under the bed, brushed an errant dust-bunny off my sleeve, and returned with my prize to the sitting room.

"Is this it?"

"Yes, indeed," the detective said, an odd softness in his voice as he took the apparently innocuous object from my hands.

Knowing him as I did, I knew that if he had had me locate the thing and if he was only now pulling something out of what I knew to be his most personal effects contained in that trunk, that he intended to share whatever it was with me. I had only been privileged to view into his privacy a few scattered times over the years, and in consequence I gave him my undivided attention, standing quietly while he undid the twine and wrapping.

Finally the brown paper fell away to reveal a stack of folded papers and what appeared to be letters, as well as a worn photograph, the corners faded and somewhat wrinkled as if looked at too many times. For a moment the room was silent save the ticking of the clock and the wind whistling about our comfortable abode, and then Holmes sighed and handed the photograph up to me.

I took it without a word and turned it over in my hand to see. Two faces, fresh and exuberant with all the vitality of youth, looked back at me – one obviously my dear friend nearly twenty years younger, and the other an unfamiliar countenance to me, but a strong, well-built young fellow with a rakish, daredevil look and posture as the two of them lounged against a wall on what I assumed to be the Cambridge University campus.

I knew at once who the other was, and in consequence asked Holmes no unnecessary and very painful questions.

For a moment, I studied the faces of the two men in the picture – Holmes, his expression so blissfully free from the haunted, icy chill that so normally masked his features on a regular basis now, looking for all the world like any young fellow in the busy collegiate world, dressed in casual late summer clothes and actually smiling genuinely; a rare occurrence that even I saw little of nowadays.

The other, an equally carefree-looking face, fresh and honest but with a look that bespoke of inner mischief. Rather a good-looking fellow, too, I noted, with an athletic build, he was grinning and looking sideways at his friend as if to gauge his reaction to having his picture snapped, immortalizing the casual moment forever here.

My heart ached at the raw pain I now saw reflected in Sherlock Holmes's eyes, half-hidden in the mesmerizing flicker of the fire, as I looked up from the photograph to gaze at him. I felt a sudden tightening in my throat and chest at the difference now visible from the young fellow in the picture and the sombre, brooding detective staring unseeing into the glowing coals.

He made no move to show me the papers, and I of course made no move to ask about them, feeling honoured enough that he trusted me to view the visual proof of the tragedy I had only just found out about during this horrible case to end all dreadful cases.

Holmes had been staring into the fire this entire time, but his gaze now drifted from the flickering flames to the letters beside him, then to the window where we could see snow swirling outside. His hand came up unconsciously to rub absently at the place upon his side where he had taken the bullet aimed for me only a week before, and his other hand clenched suddenly upon the arm of the chair. Still he had made no sound, but it was obvious where his thoughts had drifted.

As a shiver then ran suddenly through his thin form as he sat there, huddled in the blanket I had put round him more for comfort than warmth, I carefully, almost reverently, set the photograph back in his lap and then went to the table, pouring him a cup of steaming tea and mixing a little milk into the brew to cool it slightly.

I then slowly returned to where my friend sat, unmoving and unspeaking, still staring into the fire.

I put one hand comfortingly on his shoulder and leaned round him to hand him the cup with the other, weighing in my mind what to say that might possibly help at the moment.

"You know, old fellow," I said softly, "that you need not worry so – I am capable of taking care of myself."

One thin, slightly shaking, hand reached to take the saucer, but the fingers of the other rested for only a brief instant upon the bandage still wrapped around my hand.

"Not always." I barely heard the low whisper, and as it was I could not be certain that was what he had said.

"Perhaps not," I sighed slowly, sadly, crouching beside his chair to pick up the papers and carefully replace them in the brown paper before laying the packet upon the nearby desk.

I stood for a moment, not knowing what to do or say, wondering if perhaps he would prefer to be left alone. As he made no move to even look my direction, I assumed the latter and turned toward the door, pausing before I reached it.

"Holmes," I spoke softly, turning back toward him.

Two inestimably weary eyes, filled with a deep ghostly pain, finally lifted from the steaming teacup to meet my gaze.

"_I trust you_, my dear fellow," I said simply. "You must now learn to start trusting _yourself_ again."

For a moment we remained in that position, fixed in time, as the fire crackled and popped unnoticed, each of us looking at the other's soul, awkward and exposed and vulnerable. Then I finally, reluctantly, broke the searching gaze and time returned to normal around us as I opened the door to leave him alone with his thoughts.

"Doctor."

I paused and turned back toward my friend. He was sitting upright now, his eyes glimmering in the firelight as he looked over at me.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"If you would not mind postponing your unpacking for a bit, my dear fellow, I should appreciate your company over dinner, which Mrs. Hudson should be bringing up in exactly three and one-half minutes," he said with a half-smile and a hesitant attempt at his normal off-hand tone of voice.

I met him halfway with a grin. "I believe I could make time in my schedule for that, Holmes."

He grinned, his features softening from the harsh gloom of earlier. "Thank you, Watson."

And somehow, in those three words, I received the oddest feeling that our coming repast was not what he was actually referring to.

* * *

"There it is, Renie my lad." Lachlan pointed at the high brick building, his honest face beaming with pleasure not only to be in his beloved England once again, but at the very spot where his life had so recently taken its radical turn. "221B."

Haight followed his friend's finger with an odd mixture of surprise at the seemingly ordinary atmosphere of the place combined with awe from all the stories he had heard about it.

In reality, _ordinary_ was the last adjective anyone could use to describe that threshold, across which so many celebrated men and women, both criminal and legitimate, had passed.

"It's splendid," the American said, sticking his hands into his trouser pockets. "Are you certain that they'll be ready for us?"

"Mrs. Hudson will; I sent her a telegram near on two days ago. Gentlest lady you'll ever have the luck of meetin', she told me that they'd just finished up a case and nothing seemed about to come up, so they'll have time for us."

"Well, what are we waiting for then, Midshipman? Come on!"

Renie strode off across the street, dodging cabs and foot-traffic with the self-assurance that only a self-important American such as he could possess.

Lachlan grinned, shouldered his bag, and followed, enjoying for perhaps the hundredth time in two days the feeling of freedom that came with his now cast-free arm.

Haight stopped at the door, took a somewhat nervous breath, and paused with his hand over the bell.

"Should I?" He glanced at the seaman, who nodded.

"Go on, lad."

The reporter moved to do so…only to be interrupted by a loud clang from above that made both him and Lachlan snap their heads upward.

One of the windows had been thrust open and a thick, white vapour was billowing out of it, adding to the already existent smog.

"Holy cow!" Haight exclaimed, stepping backward to get a better look. Lachlan let out a stream of his characteristic curses.

In the midst of the cloud there appeared a light-haired figure, leaning almost hazardously far out of the window, coughing violently, his hand to his mouth.

"Doctor!" the seaman bellowed up in concern. "Are you all right?!"

Watson coughed again and managed to peer down at the two, his eyes streaming as he spoke with a hoarse, breathless voice.

"Lachlan! Haight! Yes…we are quite all right…it's just…"

This short speech was punctuated by choking and numerous gasps in a quest for clean air.

A second pair of shoulders and the lean face of Sherlock Holmes appeared suddenly beside him, coughing deeply from inside his lungs as though he had been in the thick of whatever had caused the fumes.

"There, Watson," he choked, "…that proves…that Thompson could not have murdered Wilson…though I didn't expect the reaction to be so…so…"

"_Suffocating?_"

"Yes."

There was a sudden, very shrill (and obviously female) shriek from the lower rooms and both of the tenants looked behind them in sudden terror before gulping and disappearing inside.

Haight's brows flew upward to vanish in his hairline. "Gentlest lady I'll ever meet, eh?"

Lachlan merely shrugged, his blue eyes twinkling. He looked expectantly at Holmes and Watson as they burst through the door a moment later, still pulling on their overcoats.

"Lachlan," said Watson brightly. "Have you ever been to _Simpson's_ in the Strand?"

* * *

_And there it is, FINIS at long, long last. Thank you for reading and reviewing the Epic to End All Epics!_


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